


Doc Mack

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Drama, Fanfiction, First Time, Fusion, Hemophobia, M/M, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25397557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: Dr. Rodney McKay, MD, Ph.D., has developed a blood phobia that's forced him to leave his prestigious New York surgical post to be the doctor in Pegasus Harbor, Maine. He's a medical genius with appalling social skills and he's never really been at home anywhere, let alone a small coastal town - a town filled with quirky characters where everyone knows everyone's business, and where Rodney meets another lonely man, Police Chief John Sheppard, who takes a very personal interest in the town's new doctor. Their new relationship is threatened however as Rodney's beset by crisis after crisis, overshadowed by the blood phobia that might mean he's unable to practice medicine at all.
Relationships: Jeannie Miller/Kaleb Miller, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, Ronon Dex/Radek Zelenka
Comments: 46
Kudos: 98
Collections: McShep Big Bang 2020





	Doc Mack

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the McShep Big Bang 2020. This is a fusion with the TV show _Doc Martin_. Doc Martin's a UK program about a GP, set in Cornwall, and this story's set in the fictional town of Pegasus Harbor on the Maine coast. You don't need to know the Doc Martin show to understand this fic and the story doesn't follow Doc Martin canon all that closely - in particular John isn't at _all_ like the policemen in Doc Martin - he's way cooler! :) 
> 
> Content notes: As Rodney's a doctor in this (the horror!), the fic contains explicit descriptions of medical situations and procedures. There are mentions of blood and incisions, for instance. There's also a section depicting someone with a mental illness - psychosis on top of PTSD. Homeopathy and religious extremism aren't presented in a positive light as this is Rodney's POV. With ShippenStand's help I've done my best to get the medical details right so we'll call any remaining inaccuracies artistic license.
> 
> Big hugs and many thanks to my betas LogicGunn and ShippenStand, and to Avatoh for the excellent art which is at the end of the story.

* * *

The road leading down into Pegasus Harbor clung to the steep hills like an al dente pasta noodle flung at a wall. Rodney gripped the wheel of his Volvo white-knuckled and cursed it for a cattle-track with delusions of grandeur as he negotiated narrow hairpin bends with trees and undergrowth blocking his view of oncoming traffic. The countryside briefly opened out into a stretch of muddy farmland and Rodney was alarmed to see a dirt-splattered truck hurtling toward him, speeding down the first bit of straight road he'd seen in the last half hour. He snarled and hunkered down, determined not to break first but the truck careered right at him, seeming not to see his car at all. With a cry of alarm, he wrenched the wheel hard right and the Volvo lurched off across the field, rocking through muddy ruts until it hit a deeper puddle and stopped dead, the airbag inflating with a bang, pinning him to his seat. 

"Morons!" It was half-muffled by the airbag, but the truck had rattled on out of hearing. He sat there, heart pounding with fear and rage, the car's wheels spinning uselessly, then managed to fumble around the slowly deflating bag and switch off the ignition. 

"Fuck!" He tried banging his head on the airbag in despair but quickly stopped when the sproingy bag threatened to give him whiplash. "Oh, for–" Rodney scrabbled for the chipped old scalpel he kept in the door compartment to sever seatbelts in case he was ever trapped underwater in a sinking vehicle. You couldn't be too careful. He slashed the bag and pushed the remnants away then opened the door, hesitating as he put his foot out. Rodney was wearing Italian leather shoes—he might not be a prestigious surgeon anymore, but there were standards to maintain. He sighed; the shoes were doubtless a lost cause. There was nothing for it, so he clambered out and glared at the Volvo's front wheels which were thoroughly mired. The back of the car was covered in thick muddy splashes which extended back several yards. He turned, but there were only fields, mud, sky, a few trees, and the road, empty of traffic now that he needed help. 

He leaned back into the car and found his phone to call AAA, but there was no signal. Barely restraining himself from flinging the useless phone into the mud, Rodney swore again and kicked the front tire, bruising his toes. "Ow, ow, ow," he moaned, hopping about shaking his foot. He dropped the phone into his jacket pocket and banged his fists on the car's roof, letting loose a prolonged and inventive string of curses. 

"Looks like you could do with a hand," someone drawled nearby.

Rodney jumped, startled. His stream of invective had covered the arrival of an all-terrain vehicle up on the road and a man with messy dark hair was peering over the Volvo at him. "Who–?" Rodney started, then noticed some sort of black and gray uniform. "Road service?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, no," the guy said. "John Sheppard, police chief in these parts. And you?"

"Well clearly I'm stuck here," Rodney snapped because it was plainly obvious to anyone with eyes in their head. Maybe the erratic hair covered a head injury? "I was run off the road by some murderous halfwits in a truck. These goat tracks you laughably call roads in Maine are ridiculously narrow—you must be swamped in lawsuits from accidents that could easily have been avoided by better civil planning!" 

"Uh-huh?" the guy said, raising an eyebrow. "No, I meant what's your name."

"Oh," Rodney said, thrown off in mid-rant. "Er, Rodney McKay, MD, Ph.D. I'm the town's new primary care physician."

Sheppard picked his way around the puddle in front of the Volvo. He had boots on, at least. Rodney wondered if there were boots in his own future. Or plaid flannel shirts, like his brother-in-law wore.

"Hi, Doc," Sheppard said, extending a hand.

"Oh, well. Yes, I suppose..." Rodney muttered, gingerly shaking the proffered hand and hoping Sheppard wasn't given to crushing (heavily insured) fingers in pointless displays of machismo. He wasn't, and his hand was warm and dry. "Um, I would say pleased to meet you, but under the circumstances–"

"Yeah, you're gonna need a tow," Sheppard said, holding Rodney's hand a trifle longer than politeness required. "I'll give you a lift to town so you can arrange that." 

"Yes, I... one minute," Rodney stammered, flustered but not sure why. It seemed suddenly warm, despite the chill breeze blowing across the open field. He rummaged in the car, aware that his ass was exposed, his suit jacket riding up as he stretched into the passenger footwell for his briefcase. Sheppard stayed right there, almost as if he were enjoying the view. Red-faced, Rodney straightened, clearing his throat as he locked the Volvo with an electronic ping. 

Sheppard took his arm to help him step up out of the worst mud onto a plowed area, and they trudged up to the road. "Um...thanks," Rodney said, turning to look back at his car, forlornly nose down in the dirt like a mole that hadn't had its morning espresso yet.

"Happy to help," Sheppard said. "I'd say 'welcome to Pegasus Harbor', but I'm guessing you're not in the mood just now."

Rodney snorted and climbed into the vehicle, which was ridiculously high off the ground and required foot and hand-holds like a climbing wall. Rodney had never excelled at gym and had a fear of heights, viewing rock climbing with horror. He put in his briefcase and heaved himself aboard nonetheless. "Are all your locals homicidal lunatics?" He asked, fastening his seatbelt with an angry click. 

Sheppard started the SUV and eased out onto the empty road. "Nah. Pretty quiet around here mostly, although we get a few tourist hijinks in the season."

"Tourists?" Rodney echoed disbelievingly. "People come here willingly?"

Sheppard side-eyed him. "No one exactly dragged you here in irons, Doc," he said, his voice noticeably cooler. 

"Might as well have," Rodney muttered under his breath. "No, no, I had to endure a tedious interview with a bunch of local numbskulls, but if my sister didn't live nearby there's no way I'd have–"

"Oh yeah?" Sheppard sounded interested. "She's a local?"

"For my sins," Rodney said gloomily. "Jean McKay. I mean Miller. She married a damn English teacher who got a job at the local school. She threw away a prestigious training post at Johns Hopkins to bury herself in the back of beyond and procreate. She insisted I move here. Pulled strings."

"Right, Kaleb Miller, I know him and Jeannie—nice folks. Huh. Small world."

"Microscopic," Rodney said sourly.

"You from Boston?"

"New York," Rodney corrected. He was actually Canadian, but then no one from New York was actually _from_ New York. He sighed, remembering the spacious loft apartment he'd sold, the gleaming hospital where he'd been revered for his surgical skills and feared by his juniors and by many of his colleagues, a remarkable number of whom were idiots.

"Ah. Be a nice change for you here, then," Sheppard said blandly. Rodney shot him a look. Sheppard was smirking, so yeah, yanking his chain.

"A change, yes. Nice, not so much," Rodney said curtly, folding his arms and slumping in sullen silence for the rest of the ride. Sheppard tuned the radio to a Johnny Cash retrospective, adding insult to injury.

* * *

The fancifully-named Atlantis Clinic was in a charming two-story wooden house up a lane, a vision of green clapboard and white-painted gables. Rodney loathed it on sight. In his view, medical establishments should be made of glass and metal, with shiny modern fixtures and overly bright lights to keep patients in their place.

As he gazed sourly at the annoying pile of chocolate-box cuteness which would be his home and workplace for as long as he could stand it here, he became aware of heavy breathing in the vicinity of his knees. Alarmed, he stepped back, but it was only a dog, not a deranged local crawling about on all fours. 

"Get away!" he told the filthy creature. It was gray and shaggy with fur hanging in its eyes, and it looked none too clean. Probably flea-infested and harboring all manner of diseases. The dog panted up at him, tongue lolling, and barked happily.

"Piss off!" Rodney said, glaring. "I'm a cat person, not a dog person. Get lost!" The dog ignored him and settled down to lick its nether regions. 

A gaggle of teenage girls clattered down the lane, all eyeliner, skin-tight jeans, and unfortunate complexions. He squinted, trying to assess whether any of them needed retinoid medication.

"Hi, Doc Mack!" they sing-songed, rolling their eyes. "Nice dog!" one of them added, setting them all off into fits of giggles.

"It's not my dog, and I'll thank you to call me Dr. McKay!" he shouted crossly, but they'd vanished around a corner, still giggling. Rodney stared after them, frowning—how had they known his name? That policeman must have gossiped. He ground his teeth. God, how he hated small towns. 

At his feet, the revolting shaggy dog rolled over and kicked its feet in the air. Rodney made a disgusted face and stepped around it, unlocking the front door just as a van with _Geniius Movers_ painted irregularly on the side rolled to a stop at the curb. Rodney narrowed his eyes. It didn't bode well that the moving company couldn't spell its own name. 

"Doc Mack?" called an older man in a military-looking coverall complete with epaulets and a name badge, getting out of the van. "I'm Cowen, and this is Ladon." He gestured at a younger, thinner man who was already opening the back of the van. "Where do you want it all?"

"It's Dr. McKay, and I have no idea. I only just got here due to being run off the road by local hooligans." 

The younger one was already trudging up the path with a stack of boxes, so Rodney pushed open the door and made his way into what appeared to be a waiting room. The dog barked happily and ran through and out of sight. "Get out, you mangy beast!" Rodney yelled, then found he was shouting at the one called Ladon, who raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, not you," Rodney said. "That damn dog got in. Whose is it?"

Ladon shrugged, with some difficulty, what with the boxes. "Never seen it before," he said. "Can I put these here?"

"Yes, yes, whatever," Rodney said, and went to evict the bloody dog. It wasn't in the office or the small (alarmingly primitive) kitchen. Well, he'd be ordering in, mostly. He strode outside to find Cowen leaning on the van, smoking. "I'm not paying you to laze about," he said sharply. 

Cowen didn't move. "I have to be careful—an old back injury," he said, with an insincere smile. Rodney eyed him narrowly, detecting no signs of back pain or muscle spasm in his stance. "Make an appointment and I'll examine you," he ordered. "Next week," he added hastily. He needed time to get organized.

"Discount rates?" Cowen asked. "I don't have insurance."

Rodney hated this crap—accounts and insurance and endless, time-wasting paperwork. As a surgeon, the hospital had paid him handsomely and he never had to worry about it, or be the bad guy sending in the debt collectors. "I'll look into a sliding scale if you can provide evidence of financial hardship," he snapped. 

Cowen's face darkened. "You'll want a better bedside manner if you're to survive here," he said threateningly. "Being new in this neck of the woods, you want to make allies, not enemies."

"That's a lost cause, then," Rodney said caustically, not quite believing he was being warned off by some yokel with a moving van. "Plus, I'm the only doctor hereabouts, so the town'll have to lump it."

Cowen ground out his cigarette on the road. "I could have done you a lot of good around here if you weren't so full of yourself. I'm a bad man to anger, Doc." He straightened and turned, raising his voice. "Ladon, are we done here?"

"That was the last of it," Ladon said, emerging from the front door. He'd been trudging to and fro while Rodney and Cowen had their stand-off. He avoided Rodney's eyes and closed up the van's rear doors, then got in the passenger side. Cowen got in as well and slammed the door. 

"I'll be needing a workman for odd jobs," Rodney called. He disliked Cowen intensely but the man was a local after all. "I assume there are people around here who do that?"

Cowen leaned out the driver's window and gave him a shark's grin. "Well, Doc, that'd be us, Geniius Repairs, Electrical and Plumbing. It's a small town." 

"That's _Dr._ _McKay_!" Rodney shouted.

Cowen grinned again. "Sure thing, Doc Mack."

" _Dr._ _McKay_!" Rodney shouted again fruitlessly after the van as it rattled off down the lane. Damn it. Surely there must be some other repairman in Pegasus Harbor?

He walked wearily back into the waiting room, now piled with boxes. Something barked in the kitchen and he swore and charged in there, just missing the shaggy dog as it slipped out the back door. Rodney locked the door and leaned tiredly on the kitchen counter, closing his eyes. Christ, he needed a coffee. He wondered which box it was in.

* * *

Rodney had barely finished unpacking the last of the boxes early the next morning when the clinic bell jangled. He ran his hands through his hair—what remained of it, given that moving to Pegasus Harbor was likely to make it abandon ship faster than you could say Rogaine—and stamped through to get rid of the illiterate local who'd missed the NOT OPEN UNTIL NEXT WEEK sign he'd stuck on the front door. 

An auburn-haired woman was setting a tray of potted plants down on the reception desk. As he stared, dumbfounded, she took a macramé plant-holder out of her bag and clambered up onto a chair to hang it from a hook.

"I didn't order any plants," Rodney said sharply because this was the ass-end of Maine, not some overpriced New York law firm where they changed the peace lilies monthly. 

The young woman turned. She was pleasant-looking, but Rodney saw with dismay that she was wearing ridiculous layers of hippie nonsense, all fringes and shawls, and strings of beads. "Oh, hi there, Doc Mack", she said cheerfully. "I took the plants home while we were waiting for you to arrive. They needed a good soaking and a bit of repotting." She took several plants in pots and put them on her desk, the coffee table, and the windowsill. 

"Look, I already said," Rodney protested, turning ineffectually in a circle as she bustled about. "I don't want a plant service." He gestured at the clinic. "I mean, look at the place!"

"Yeah, it's a bit sad without some greenery," she agreed, unperturbed. "What d'you want in your room? The old doc liked African violets."

"I don't... seriously, are you deaf, or just terminally idiotic? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"There's no need to be rude, Doc. I'm Katie Brown." Having arranged the plants to her liking, she sat down behind the reception desk and beamed up at him. "I'm your receptionist."

"I... What? I don't have a receptionist," Rodney said, frowning. "Well, not yet. I was going to advertise."

"Oh, no need for that," the woman—Katie?—said. "I've been getting a bit bored since the old doc left and my botany course is on a break now, so I can help you out, no problem."

Rodney glared at the green leafy monsters that had invaded his clinic. "I have allergies," he said stiffly. He could almost feel his sinuses clogging up, just looking at the damn plants. "And they can't be hygienic, with all that dirt."

"No worries, Doc. It's all sterilized potting mix, and none of these are flowering plants, so there's no pollen." When Rodney didn't respond, Katie rolled her eyes. "Pollen's what people are allergic to, Doc."

"Apart from poison ivy," Rodney said, peering up at the hanging plant suspiciously. It was made up of strings of small green beads, all bursting with toxins, no doubt. "I had a nasty experience with poison ivy once, on a camping trip with the Fort McMurray Eager Beavers."

Katie sighed. "Yes, but houseplants don't cause contact dermatitis, doc. None of these here do—I wouldn't bring something like that into the clinic."

"Well, I..." Rodney felt wrong-footed and resented it. He felt he should have some say in selecting a suitable receptionist, and Katie was so... hippieish. She was wearing clogs! "Do you have references?"

"No one asks for references in Pegasus Harbor, Doc!" Katie smiled at him as though he were a slow but plucky toddler. "Everyone knows everyone here!" 

Rodney gritted his teeth. "Well, I certainly don't. Do you have filing skills? Computer skills to keep the records? Interpersonal and communication skills?" (He was pretty sure that was the sort of thing you wanted in a receptionist). "Are you organizationally impaired?" 

"Yes, yes, yes and no," Katie answered. She got up and went through to the kitchen, peering into the cupboards and the fridge. 

Rodney followed her, waving his hands. "This is my home, you can't just–"

Katie frowned into the fridge. "You need milk, and some cookies. I'll get it delivered." She poked about in the cupboards, then turned. "Where's the instant coffee?"

"As though I'd have that rubbish anywhere near my house!" Rodney spluttered. "You're not my housekeeper. You're barely even my receptionist, and you want cookies and coffee?"

Katie returned to her desk and lifted the phone, placing an order with the general store. She set down the handset and looked up at him. "It's not for me, it's for them."

Who?" She pointed and Rodney turned. The doorbell rang, and rang again, as people filed into the waiting room and took seats, chatting away to each other and Katie. 

"I'm not open until next week," Rodney protested faintly as Katie pushed him into his partly set-up office.

"But they want to see you now," she said, calling in his first patient and shutting the door behind them.

Rodney fumed for a moment then sat behind the desk. "What seems to be the problem Mrs. ...er," He glanced at the patient file-card Katie'd pressed into his hand. "Mrs. Shelby?" She looked to be in her fifties and had a large blue-striped canvas handbag on her lap.

The woman clutched her bag and smiled at him. "Oh, nothing, doctor. Just the usual."

Rodney scanned the card. She'd had a bout of influenza last year, and several prescriptions for cough syrup. "You have a cough?" 

"No, that's cleared up. How're you settling in, Doc? Katie looking after you okay?" 

They continued in this vein for several minutes, Rodney growing ever more frustrated. Finally, he frowned and leaned forward. "So if there's no cough, why are you here?"

"Just welcoming you to Pegasus Harbor, Doc," she said cheerfully. "I hear you used to be a surgeon. Did you want a change of scene?"

Rodney set his jaw pugnaciously. "Let me get this straight. There is, in fact, nothing wrong with you and you had no appointment."

"Well, appointments!" Mrs. Shelby waved a dismissive hand. "That's a bit formal. I'm just popping in for a chat."

"No, in fact you're not," Rodney said curtly, taking her by the elbow and hustling her out. In the waiting room, Katie was handing out cups of foul-looking instant coffee and chocolate chip cookies to the noisy throng and chatting with them about plants.

"Hey!" Rodney called. No one took any notice. He hit the bell on Katie's desk several times and raised his voice. "Listen up, everyone!" The chatter died down and a bevy of interested faces turned to him. "This is a medical clinic, not a social event! The clinic is not, in fact, even properly open yet. Anyone who's just come to socialize and who has no medical reason to be here can get out now!" He turned to the shaggy gray dog which had somehow sneaked inside again. "And that goes double for you!"

There was general grumbling and most of the throng reluctantly got up and shuffled out the door. Rodney shooed the dog out after them then turned to a remaining elderly man. "Do you actually have anything wrong with you, or are you deaf as a post?"

"What?" the old boy shouted, cupping an ear. "You'll have to speak up!"

Rodney gritted his teeth. 

Having cleared the waiting room, he continued unpacking and setting up his office. After that, he made a list of medical equipment for Katie to order, then realized he was hungry and it was nearly noon. He went to make coffee—real coffee, having now unpacked his coffee-maker and beans—but the kitchen faucet made a strangled banging noise and died, producing only a rusty red dribble. 

"I need a break," Rodney told Katie, who was, to his horror, eating tofu salad out of a Tupperware container. "Where's the nearest place for lunch that has decent coffee?"

"Maybe the Puddlejumper? On the harbor?" Katie suggested. "It's only five minutes' walk. Oh, and the medical supply people say they'll deliver that stuff you need tomorrow, Doc."

"Yes, yes, very good," he said grudgingly and waved a hand. "Back in..."

"No rush, Doc," Katie called after him. "Have a nice lunch!"

* * *

Rodney claimed an outdoor table under an awning while waiting for his food to arrive and sipped a nicely balanced Americano from an oversized mug. Elizabeth Weir, the Puddlejumper's owner, had produced it for him from a shiny espresso machine and it was surprisingly good. Pegasus Harbor might be survivable after all. He took another sip, groaning in pleasure and closing his eyes. 

"Doc Mack, hey. Mind if I join you?" 

Rodney looked up, startled. It was the police chief, Sheppard. He glanced around at several empty tables, a little baffled. "I guess...?" he said uncertainly. 

"Sounds like you're enjoying yourself," Sheppard replied, grinning and plonking himself down across from Rodney. He indicated the coffee. "That some kind of substance I should be banning?"

Rodney pulled the mug nearer and clutched it protectively. "Very droll. Get your own damn coffee."

"I like a nice cup of tea, myself," Sheppard said with a smirk. Rodney stared at him, disbelieving. "So how are you settling in?"

"Oh, brilliantly. So far I've been stalked by a stray dog, had a botany-obsessed receptionist imposed on me, and had my clinic filled with a bunch of idiots with far too much time on their hands who just wanted to gawp at me because I'm new in town!"

Sheppard tilted his head sympathetically. "Yeah, you're big news around here, for sure." Rodney snorted. "You'll like Katie though—she's a good kid."

Rodney leaned forward. "She's put plants everywhere! Nasty, allergen-producing CO2 factories!"

Sheppard blinked. "I thought plants made oxygen? Like, the stuff we breathe?" 

Rodney waved a dismissive hand. "Oh sure, in the daytime. But at night they cunningly switch over to making CO2. Mark my words, one day you'll find me dead from asphyxiation."

"Oh yeah?" But Elizabeth arrived with Rodney's burger and fries and Sheppard's chicken salad before Sheppard could do more than raise a skeptical eyebrow. 

"Anyway," Sheppard said a while later, pushing the remains of his salad away and taking a drink of nasty-looking herb tea. "At least you don't have to deal with naked senior citizens."

"With what?" Rodney gaped at him.

Sheppard sighed. "Old man Hermiod. I'm always getting complaints about him sunbathing nude—he's a health nut, says he needs the vitamin D. I had to go roust him out of the dunes again this morning."

Rodney shivered. "He swims in the sea?"

"Nah, need a wetsuit for that. He just flashes the surfers and locals out walking. Wizened little guy as bald as an egg. He must be 1000 years old." Sheppard scowled. "Why in hell he can't just wear pants, I'll never know." 

"Okay, you win on the annoying job front," Rodney sighed. "Although the clinic's plumbing crapping out is the last straw. I already had a run-in with that idiot Cowen from the so-called Geniius bunch—talk about a misnomer. There must be some other plumbers or repairmen around here, surely?"

Sheppard grimaced. "Not really—most of the locals are fishermen. Cowen's a bit full of himself, but Ladon's okay."

Rodney frowned. "Damn. Well, I'd better get back to make sure Katie hasn't started cultivating marijuana in the bathtub."

Sheppard rose as well, grinning. "Nah, that's the surfers' sideline." He waved at Elizabeth as they made their way out. 

"Surely you don't turn a blind eye to illegal activities?" Rodney asked as they paused outside in the sunlight. He shaded his eyes, wishing he'd brought his special home-made sunblock. 

Sheppard shrugged. "I make sure they aren't selling to the local kids—they know I wouldn't stand for that. Better that than to have them dealing crack or meth."

"Well that's very... liberal of you," Rodney said doubtfully. "Um, I'll see you... around," he added awkwardly, extending his hand. 

"Sure will." Sheppard shook hands almost ironically, but Rodney noticed again that he held on longer than seemed normal. Feeling a little flushed, he set off toward the clinic. It was probably just his imagination that he felt Sheppard's eyes on his ass as he trudged away. 

* * *

"I'm glad you're here, Mer," Jeannie said, releasing Rodney from a hug. He'd tried not to tense up but they hadn't been casually affectionate since before Rodney left home in his teens to start his bioengineering degree and he wasn't used to being touched. Jeannie might be happily ensconced in this backwater with her English teacher husband and a three-year-old, but Rodney'd been too busy with his studies, research, and establishing himself as a world-renowned surgeon to bother much with relationships. Besides, after being raised by their self-obsessed and argumentative parents, he'd had no interest in letting anyone get close to him. 

He patted Jeannie awkwardly on the arm. "You're the only one who is, if so. I've been run off the road, assaulted by potted plants, harassed by a stray dog, and threatened by a dubious local contractor—and that's in less than a day."

Jeannie rolled her eyes. "I'm sure it's not that bad. Come and say hi to Kaleb. You've missed dinner, I'm afraid."

Rodney, who had deliberately not visited until after nine at night precisely so as to miss the sticky-fingered child and whatever ghastly vegetarian concoction was the plat du jour, followed her to the kitchen. "Just coffee will do."

Jeannie frowned. "Not this late at night, and besides, we only have dandelion root coffee. I can make you some tea, though."

Rodney grimaced in disgust. "Strong tea, then, and I'll thank you never to mention that dandelion muck to me again."

"Same old Mer," Jeannie said resignedly. A tall, slender man in a slightly lopsided sweater was seated at the kitchen table, marking workbooks. He half-stood as they entered the room, and leaned over to shake hands. "Rodney! Nice to see you!"

"Yes, yes, same here," Rodney lied, noting with satisfaction as he pulled up a chair that Kaleb's hair was starting to recede at the temples.

"You're settling in at the clinic?" Kaleb asked, as Jeannie filled an electric kettle and banged about in the cupboards.

Rodney folded his arms on the table. "The place is a ruin. It's unhygienic, cramped, and poorly maintained. The plumbing's a mess and I don't trust that Genii-whatever lot, but there don't seem to be any other repairmen around."

"Oh, Ladon's pretty good," Kaleb said, accepting a mug of something decidedly green from Jeannie with a smile. Rodney was relieved to see his own tea was an appropriately dark color, hopefully strong enough to strip paint. There was _some_ caffeine in tea, wasn't there? He sniffed it dubiously.

"I gather Katie's helping out," Jeannie said, joining them with another mug of steaming green effluent. Rodney had rather hoped for cookies, but none seemed forthcoming. They'd probably have had tofu in them, anyway. 

"She's turned the waiting room into a greenhouse!" he protested. "Noxious weeds everywhere!"

"Katie's doing a botany degree," Jeannie said. "She always did have a marvelous green thumb. Remember those cabbages we got from her last year?" 

Kaleb nodded. "They were huge."

Rodney sighed. "Excuse me if I fail to be excited by vegetables."

"Well, you could do with eating a few, getting some vitamins," Jeannie said, eyeing him disapprovingly. "You look pasty."

Rodney glowered; she always nagged him about his health. Who was the doctor here, anyway? There were vegetables in pizza.

"Have you met many of the locals yet?" Kaleb smoothly changed the subject, used to dealing with McKays. 

"Half the damn town came in before we were even open, just to gossip and gawk at me!" He sipped his bitter black tea.

"Oh, they're just being welcoming," Jeannie said. "You're big news around these parts."

"I threw the time-wasters out," Rodney said with satisfaction.

Jeannie closed her eyes and sighed. "Well, I heard you'd met John, anyway."

Rodney frowned. "John? Oh, you mean Sheppard, the cop with execrable taste in music?"

"The police chief, yes," Jeannie said with a long-suffering air.

"How in hell did you hear all this?" Rodney asked suspiciously. "Do you run a spy network?"

"It's a small town, Mer. People talk."

"They're just curious," Kaleb added placatingly. "It'll settle down in a while."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm such a people-person and I'll blend right in," Rodney said morosely. 

Jeannie sighed again and patted his hand. "Well, we're glad Carson pulled strings so you could take over the practice. It's nice to have you nearby for a change, even if you are a curmudgeon." 

Rodney looked away. "All very well for Carson—he gets to stay in his nice, civilized research lab in the city, while I'm in exile." 

"If you just give it a chance–" 

"I don't have any option, do I?" Rodney said curtly. "It's this or, I don't know, head off through a wormhole to another galaxy to fight space aliens! It's not like I can operate anymore."

"Well, at least you've got a vivid imagination," Jeannie said. "That always was your strong suit, Mer, or maybe your problem."

"I read too much science fiction," Rodney said. Unfortunately, his imagination was, these days, mostly occupied worrying whether he was developing a new and lethal disease. Refreshing his memory about primary care medicine hadn't helped one bit—all those photos of ghastly skin conditions.

"Have you tried counseling?" Jeannie asked carefully, but he wasn't going to talk about his damn blood phobia with her and Kaleb. They'd probably want him to wear crystals, or do aromatherapy. 

"I'd rather not discuss it," he said shortly. Time to change the subject. "Anyway, how's... what's her name? Patty? Betty?"

"Maddy," Jeannie said, annoyed. "Short for Madison, as you well know. Come to lunch on Sunday and see for yourself."

Rodney squinted at her suspiciously. "Will there be tofu?" 

Jeannie frowned. "It's delicious marinated in soy sauce and barbecued. But I'll do you a skewer of grilled prawns if you insist. I have difficulty empathizing with prawns."

Kaleb pulled a face and went back to his marking.

* * *

Much against his better judgment, Rodney employed Cowen and Ladon to fix the clinic's plumbing—they couldn’t open without running water, well, without water-colored water. Rodney had planned to spend the day happily destroying his so-called peers' latest painfully wrong papers in the medical literature, but it was not to be. 

"Teyla rang from the school," Katie said, as Rodney headed back to his office after spying on the Geniius idiots who were banging away incompetently in the kitchen. "She wants you to go over there—some of the kids are sick."

"Children are always sick," Rodney said dismissively. "Nasty little beasts. It's probably something revolting like chickenpox."

"No, she said Billy O'Brien fainted, and a few of them threw up and say their heads hurt."

"Great, sounds like a highly infectious stomach infection. I don't know what they want _me_ to do."

Katie stared at him. "You're a doctor!"

Rodney almost snapped back _I'm a surgeon!_ but then he remembered he wasn't, not anymore. He couldn't operate, not after developing a blood phobia. He gritted his teeth. "Who's this Teyla person?" 

"She's the head teacher." Katie thrust a note at him. "Here—the school's address."

Armed with gloves and a mask, Rodney interrogated Teyla—who proved to be diminutive and terrifying—then examined several wan-looking troublemakers complaining of dizziness, ringing in the ears, nausea, and headache. None of them had fevers. 

"It's not an infection," he told Teyla, stripping off his gloves after the last child. "When did it start?" 

"They were all fine yesterday," Teyla said, looking worried. 

"Phone the parents," Rodney said. "See if they were like this at home."

"It is unlikely they would have been brought to school if they were unwell," Teyla said doubtfully. "But many of the parents work, so... yes, I will make some calls." 

Rodney paced around the school, those rooms that weren't occupied by classes. He glimpsed Kaleb through one door, writing something on a blackboard. At the end of a hallway he pushed his way into the lunchroom, adjoining a kitchen where a harassed-looking woman was making a large pan of mac 'n cheese. 

"Some of the children are sick," Rodney said, eyeing the wonderfully bland and cheesy food. His stomach rumbled.

"Nothing to do with me!" the woman retorted. A name-badge on her chest read Dolores. "I've had a splitting headache all morning myself."

"Really?" Rodney swiveled, peering around at the stacked plates and equipment, the containers of salad. He noticed an odd-looking object, like a stereo speaker but smaller, on the floor in the corner. "What's that?"

Dolores snorted. "Cowen's latest money-making scheme. We had a bit of a mouse infestation and he sold Teyla these pest eradicators. Put them in here, then started on the classrooms but he ran out—typical—so he's ordering more. I told Teyla just to get them on-line and cut out the middleman." 

"Hmph," Rodney said, bending to grab the small machine. Printed on the side was Pest-a-Matic! Rids Your Home of Unwanted Vermin! He turned it over, opened the battery compartment, and removed the batteries. "Any more?"

Armed with two of the contraptions, he rejoined Teyla. "How many more of these are there?"

They located two in the classroom where the children had gotten sick—Teyla had sent them to the library and they seemed better if the noise level was any indication. Four more Pest-a-Matics were found in store cupboards and an outside shed. 

"I think Cowen ran out after that—he said he only had eight in stock," Teyla told Rodney. "Do you think they caused the problem? I could only locate a couple of the parents, but they said the children had been fine at home."

"Yes, I'm sure of it." Rodney pointed at the speaker in the center of the Pest-a-Matic's triangular structure. "They emit ultrasonic sound waves, which supposedly rodents dislike but humans can't hear. Except they do affect our brains and inner ears, sometimes causing what you've seen—migraines, tinnitus, nausea, dizziness. They're well-known to be problematic. I've removed all the batteries."

Teyla's lips tightened. "Cowen failed to mention any adverse effects."

"I can't imagine why not," Rodney said sarcastically. "And on that note, I need to get back to the clinic and check what sort of disaster he's creating there." 

He escaped before the germ-infested horde of children was released for lunch-break and made his way back across town, thinking longingly about mac 'n cheese. Maybe the Puddlejumper served it? 

Ladon was sitting beside Katie showing her something on the reception computer. "I hope you're not installing any software," Rodney barked. "I'm sure it'd be chock full of viruses!"

"Relax, Doc, Ladon's just showing me how to hook up the printer," Katie said. "He's pretty good with technical stuff." 

Ladon glanced quickly at the kitchen where Cowen was presumably lurking and gave Rodney a nervous smile. "Happy to help. I like IT work."

"Yeah? Well, no minesweeper, and I've got a bone to pick with your boss," Rodney said grimly, and strode into the kitchen. 

Cowen was hitting one of the faucets with an oversized wrench. "Stop that!" Rodney said sharply. "You're supposed to be fixing it, not breaking it."

Cowen turned, grinning nastily. "I'd no idea you were an expert on home repairs, Doc."

Rodney set his feet and folded his arms. "Probably more so than you. You only seem to be expert at fucking things up."

"You haven't even tried the faucets yet," Cowen said angrily.

"Not the plumbing," Rodney said. "Those ultrasonic pest repellers you left all around the school. I've just spent the morning there dealing with a bunch of sick children and staff, thanks to your negligence. Those things can cause very nasty side-effects!"

"You've got no right to stick your nose in–" Cowen snarled, raising the wrench threateningly.

Rodney stuck his chin out. "I've got every right—the health of this community is very much my responsibility, and frankly, you're a public health menace!"

Cowen's face flushed an ugly color, and for a second Rodney thought Cowen might hit him. Then he swiveled and locked the wrench around the cold faucet, twisting it hard until it flew off and a fountain of water jetted up several feet, splashing down on the floor and the kitchen table. Cowen pushed roughly past Rodney, yelling for Ladon. Rodney distantly heard the front door slam and the van drive off but he was too busy scrabbling for the faucet and trying to jam it over the water jet. It was like trying to stick a cork in Old Faithful at Yellowstone. In the end, with the kitchen awash and the flood spreading to the waiting room and his office, he had to find the water supply and turn it off. 

Soaked and panting, he staggered out to the waiting room and collapsed in one of the chairs. Katie was wide-eyed, wringing her hands. "Shall I get a towel?" she asked anxiously. 

"I'd need to own a massage parlor to have enough towels to mop this mess up," Rodney said tiredly. 

Katie tittered. "I can sweep it out the back door with the broom," she said, and that proved to be true, although everything was still very damp. Rodney managed to get the faucet reattached with a rusty old crescent spanner from the garden shed, and with the water back on, Katie made them mugs of coffee. 

"At least the floor's nice and clean now," she said, obviously trying to cheer him up. Rodney didn't feel like being cheered—today had been one disaster after another. 

The phone rang, and Rodney took the call while Katie washed their mugs. 

"Doc... Mac?" The voice was slurred, but Rodney recognized Sheppard's accent. 

"That's Dr. McKay, how many times do I have to repeat myself! Also, are you drunk?"

"Not... feelin' good..." Sheppard muttered indistinctly. "Fucker... bit me..."

"What? Who bit you? Where are you?" Rodney reached for his bag, which was on Katie's desk out of the way of the water. 

" 'm here... station..." There was a heavy thud and although Rodney shouted some more, Sheppard didn't answer. 

"I'll be at the police station!" Rodney called to the kitchen. "It's a medical emergency of some sort. Call an ambulance!"

He raced out the door and pounded down the lane, cutting right at the end onto the main road, nearly flattening a kid on a skateboard and fending off the usual bunch of cat-calling teenage girls with his bag. At some point, he realized the shaggy dog was loping along beside him, tongue out and fur flying. "Get lost!" he tried to shout, but there wasn't enough breath. 

The station wasn't far, thank goodness, and Rodney charged inside. "Sheppard? Where are you? What's wrong?" Still no answer, but it was a small place and he found John in the inner office, sprawled on the floor, struggling to breathe. He was pale and sweaty, his lips turning blue. 

"Christ!" Rodney fell to his knees, gasping for breath himself, and grabbed the stethoscope from his bag. He ripped Sheppard's shirt open, buttons flying, and pressed the stethoscope to his chest. Air entry was reduced bilaterally, with prominent wheezing. He opened Sheppard's mouth and peered inside. The tissues and tongue were swollen, so most likely anaphylaxis. 

"What happened?" he asked, frantically rummaging for an EpiPen in his bag. Sheppard was almost comatose, not able to speak. Rodney jammed the injector into Sheppard's muscular thigh, right through his pants. He massaged the injection site. "Breathe, damn you," he muttered, listening for breath sounds again and taking Sheppard's carotid pulse. It was fast and thready, but there sounded to be a little more air getting into his chest, and Sheppard was gasping audibly, whereas he'd been worryingly still and silent a minute ago. 

"Spider..." Sheppard wheezed. "Was dusting…fell on me. Bit my... neck..."

"What?" Rodney pushed aside his collar, seeing a badly inflamed insect bite halfway up on the right side of Sheppard's neck. "Are you allergic?"

"Fucking… spiders..." Sheppard wheezed. "Hate… goddamn bugs." 

At least he was talking more easily, and his color was better although he was still pale and sweaty. 

"Was it venomous?" Rodney asked. He had no idea if there were venomous spiders up here in Maine, but surely not? He had no antivenom at the clinic. 

" 'lergic," Sheppard managed, and Rodney exhaled in relief. Not venomous, then, but still, a life-threatening allergy was no joke as he knew full well from his own brushes with death.

Keeping a close eye on Sheppard and a finger on his pulse, Rodney phoned the clinic. Katie answered quickly. "You can cancel that ambulance—it's under control," he told her. "It was Sheppard, an allergic reaction, but he should be okay now. I've got more epinephrine and antihistamines in my bag, but I'll need to stay with him, so lock up the clinic and head home." 

Rodney focused on Sheppard again, who was trying to get up, the idiot. "Stay right there," Rodney said sternly. "You've had an anaphylactic reaction and you're not going anywhere. You could still have a biphasic episode later on so I'm going to stay awhile." He looked around. "Are there any beds here?"

"Out… back." Sheppard waved a vague hand, still a bit wheezy. He grimaced. "I feel sick."

"That's the epinephrine." Rodney snagged a metal waste bin and put it next to Sheppard, who glared up at him. "Oh all right, I guess you can try sitting. Slowly now!" He got an arm around Sheppard's shoulders and helped hoist him up to sit on the floor leaning back against the desk, the bin beside him. Sheppard looked a little green but managed not to throw up. "It'll pass in a bit," Rodney said, "which I know from past experience. I get this myself, with citrus."

"Can I have some water?" Sheppard asked, and Rodney got him some from a kitchenette adjoining the office. Before rejoining Sheppard he poked his nose through a door off the kitchenette that led to a back room with two single beds separated by a rickety table on which a fat paperback lay. There was a Johnny Cash poster tacked to the wall, frowning down judgmentally. Another door opened onto a small bathroom with a hand basin, toilet, and a tiny shower cabinet. He checked the fridge in the kitchen as he came back through. One egg in a mostly empty carton, two cans of insipid American beer, a cheese rind, and a container of yogurt well on its way to spontaneously generating alien life. His stomach reminded him he hadn't had lunch, and dinnertime was approaching.

Sheppard looked better after drinking some water. Rodney heard the noise of a vehicle outside and a knock at the door. He glanced at Sheppard, who waved vague permission, before answering it.

It was two EMTs. "I'm a doctor," Rodney said. "I thought we canceled the ambulance. Everything's fine."

The EMTs' name tags read Stackhouse and Teldy, a man and woman in dark blue uniforms. The woman said, "Yeah, we got the call saying so, but since we're here, why don't we take a look?"

"We heard anaphylactic shock?" the man said, adjusting the red bag on his shoulder and looking at Rodney skeptically.

"Yes, it was a reaction to a spider bite, and I administered epinephrine." Rodney made shooing motions. "You can be on your way."

"So you're Doc Mack," the woman said. "Nice to meet you. I think. Why don't you let us come in and see the chief?"

"Hi, Anne," Rodney heard behind him. Sheppard's voice sounded rough, which made Stackhouse glare at Rodney and shove past him.

Rodney turned and followed, starting to say there was no need, but Teldy said, looking at Rodney like he was sadly ignorant, "It's the police chief, Doc Mack. Of course we're going to check him over." She walked past him calling, "Hey, John."

"It's Dr. McKay," Rodney said to her back. He gave up and leaned in the doorway, restraining himself from taking over but pestering the EMTs to give him the heart rate, blood pressure and temperature readings.

"You want to go in, John?" Teldy asked as Stackhouse repacked the bag.

John just raised an eyebrow at her. "No?" he said incredulously, an emphatic denial she seemed to understand.

"Okay, yeah," Teldy said softly and glanced at Rodney. "All right. See you around." As the EMTs left, Teldy turned back to Rodney. "Welcome to Pegasus Harbor, Doc Mack."

"McKay, _Dr._ _McKay_ ," Rodney said to the closed door.

"Yeah, I think you've lost that one," Sheppard said. He still sounded weak, despite his vitals being right in line after an epinephrine dose.

"Think you can manage to get up if I help?" Rodney asked. Sheppard nodded, and Rodney helped him sit in the swivel chair behind the desk, taking one of the visitor's chairs himself. "Have you had this before, with a spider bite?" 

Sheppard shook his head. "Not that bad. Last time it just swelled up and itched like crazy."

"Well I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it's a serious allergy now. No gardening for you, and use a vacuum cleaner to clear any webs indoors. Also, take these antihistamines." He passed the pills over and watched as Sheppard washed them down. 

Sheppard grimaced. "Not really my thing, gardening. Too many bugs." He shot a look at Rodney. "Don't you need to get back to the clinic?"

"Nope. We're still closed, thanks to Cowen crowning his incompetence as a plumber with willful property damage." Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "He wrenched the top off one of my faucets after I confronted him about making half the school sick with noxious ultrasonic pest eradicators. Water everywhere! It needs time to dry out."

"Jeez, Rodney," Sheppard said, grinning. "It hasn't been this exciting here in ages. You’re really shaking things up."

"Less excitement of the anaphylactic variety would be good, thanks," Rodney said, reaching over the desk to take Sheppard's pulse again. "And can't you arrest Cowen for something? The man's a menace."

Sheppard shrugged. "My brief doesn't cover plain old incompetence, and that thing with the wrench sounds hard to prove—more like nuisance value, anyway."

"Yeah, figures," Rodney said bitterly.

"So, how long do I need to take it easy?" Sheppard asked. 

Rodney made a face. "Sorry to put a dampener on your social life but you should stay in tonight. Also, you shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone at home?"

Sheppard looked shifty. "Ah, this kind of... _is_ home." He cleared his throat. "Staff aren't supposed to live at the station, but I don't need much and I just never bothered getting my own place." He looked at Rodney and shrugged. "So no, no one else lives here." 

Rodney bit his lip. He could drive Sheppard back to the clinic but the ground floor was damp and unpleasant and he only had one double bed upstairs. "Well then, it looks like I'm staying here tonight," he said breezily.

Sheppard's eyebrows vanished into his sweat-soaked bangs. "Is that really necessary?"

Rodney stiffened. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but yes, it is. You could have a biphasic episode—go back into anaphylaxis again after a few hours. It's either me staying here, or I call the ambulance again and have you taken to the hospital." 

"No. No hospital," Sheppard said flatly, and Rodney wondered what bad experience with being hospitalized that had come from.

"It'll be fine," Rodney said, trying for casual insouciance. "You've got two beds out back, and I have papers to read. You'll barely notice me." He frowned. "We'll have to order in, though. Your fridge is as bare as Yul Brynner's scalp."

Sheppard smirked. "I don't eat here much. Or cook, 'cept for breakfast."

"One egg, yes, I saw the bounty available," Rodney sniffed. "At least tell me you have an internet connection." He gestured at the desktop to one side of Sheppard's desk. 

"Dial-up, yeah," Sheppard said, and Rodney groaned. "But we can do better than that on the entertainment front. Gotta go through to the bedroom for that, though."

"Oh, I don't know... I mean," Rodney stuttered, flushing bright pink. This was moving faster than he'd expected, and Sheppard was his patient. Another reason he hated small towns; _everyone_ was his patient.

Sheppard rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain something. "Keep it in your pants, McKay. I just meant I got a projector and a DVD player stashed under the bed. I usually set it up to display on the wall." 

"Oh!" Rodney tried to salvage a shred of dignity. "Do you, um, do you have anything good to watch?" 

"The general store rents out DVDs," Sheppard said. "I've got Back to the Future at the moment. Was planning to watch it tonight, anyway." He rummaged in a drawer and located the Puddlejumper's take-out menu, tossing it to Rodney then picking up the phone. "What'll you have?"

Of course, when he went to collect the food at the door, Rodney found the shaggy gray dog had snuck in and was sleeping under Sheppard's desk. Sheppard made a big fuss of it, despite Rodney's protests about not encouraging the mangy freeloader, and gave it half his burger and most of his fries. 

"He's got no collar and I've never seen him around here before. Guess he's a stray," Sheppard said, slipping the pesky animal the cheese rind as well. "You should call him Buddy." 

" _You_ call him Buddy," Rodney said crossly, glaring at the annoying animal.

"Okay, I will," Sheppard said cheerfully. 

Oddly, despite the dog, the ludicrously unscientific movie, the uncomfortable single bed, and, later, Sheppard's raspy snoring, it was the most fun Rodney had had in ages, and the best sleep he'd managed in months.

* * *

After a day or two with all the doors ajar—luckily the weather was warming up, heading for early summer—the clinic dried out and they opened properly. Rodney got used to examining numerous patients with headaches, sore backs, coughs, and inexplicable skin rashes. He enjoyed the challenge of diagnostic puzzles, but most of what he saw was tediously mundane. He missed the satisfying mechanics of surgery, so unlike the voodoo these patients expected, wanting antibiotics for obvious viral infections despite him explaining at length that he might as well wave a bunch of smoldering chicken feathers over them. Well, he refused to pander to idiots, even if they threatened to defect to a medical center in a different town. 

He also wasn't sure what to do about Sheppard. They hadn't seen each other since Rodney'd checked Sheppard's vitals the morning after the anaphylaxis excitement and pronounced him fit for work. Should he suggest lunch? Should he turn up with a DVD, or would that be weird? He didn't dare ask Jeannie—she'd never been any help with relationships, mostly badgering him to get off his ass and find a wife, or telling him he was no prize. And she might talk, or Kaleb might. No, better to do nothing and keep his feelings to himself. It was bad enough admitting he _had_ feelings. 

Which made it a little awkward initially when Sheppard shouldered his way into Rodney's afternoon clinic half-carrying a great, shaggy giant of a man.

"Doc, hi," Sheppard said. "I found him collapsed on the beach—he feels feverish."

"Hey! I was next!" protested an old coot who seemed to think his status as a retired colonel meant something to Rodney. 

"Oh, let me see," Rodney said tartly, reading from ex-Colonel Everett's file. "On the one hand, we have your minor gout recurrence due to drinking far too much port, versus a patient who's febrile and semi-conscious. No contest." He ushered Sheppard and the sagging giant into his office, slamming the door on Everett's angry splutters. 

"Put him on the exam table there," Rodney said, but Sheppard eased the huge hairy man down into a chair. 

"He's got something wrong with his back," Sheppard said. "I don't think he can lie on it."

"Impossible to see anything under that ludicrous hair," Rodney muttered, peering at the man's broad back. "I'll have to trim it."

A huge tan hand snapped out and fastened around his wrist like a manacle. Rodney yelped. "No messing with the dreads," the man-mountain rasped. 

"Jesus," Rodney said, jerking his wrist out of the man's grip. "No messing with the doctor, either."

"Deal," the man grunted.

"He told me he's called Ronon," Sheppard said.

"Right. Sheppard's going to hold your hair up so I can see your back. It's your back that's hurting, yes?"

"Okay."

Rodney sucked in a breath at the nasty infected mess below his neck, between the guy's shoulder blades. He got a flashlight and examined it more closely, relieved there was no blood. Pus he could deal with. There was something metal buried deep in the inflamed area. "Is that a... piercing?" 

Sheppard leaned over and peered at it as well. "Yep. Looks like a ring."

"Been driving me crazy," the guy—Ronon—muttered. "Tried to get it out but I can't reach."

"Oh my god—you tried to, what, cut it out yourself?" Rodney was horrified. "What with, garden shears?"

Ronon pulled a razor-edged fish-gutting knife from his boot and brandished it as evidence. With a cry of alarm that was absolutely not a scream, Rodney leaped back.

"Oh, hey now, why don't I just take that–" Sheppard began smoothly, but Ronon had vanished it back into his boot. 

"No messing with the knives, either."

"Knives? As in, plural?" Rodney protested, his voice higher pitched than he'd have liked. 

"He's probably a fisherman," Sheppard said reassuringly. "Tools of the trade."

"But why would he have a ring piercing up there on his back?" Rodney asked plaintively, edging forward to examine it again. 

"Um," Shepard said awkwardly. Rodney shot him a sharp glance. Sheppard's ears had gone pink.

"Well? Spit it out."

"Jeez, Doc. It's a... thing." Sheppard looked like he was going to stroke out from embarrassment.

"Sex," grunted Ronon. "For biting."

Sheppard winced. "Yeah, what he said."

Rodney blinked, then collected himself. "Well, it's deeply unsexy in its current state. It has to come out, and I'll need to clean and debride the wound. You'll need an anesthetic."

"No anesthetic," Ronon said, glaring up through his hair. "Gotta protect the dreads."

They compromised on a local and after multiple reassurances that his hair was safe, Ronon lay on the exam table face down and Rodney gloved up. He paused, scalpel raised, after disinfecting the mess on Ronon's back. There was going to be blood when he cut in to release the infection. Well, he'd just have to deal with it if he planned to be any kind of doctor.

Steeling himself and trying not to breathe through his nose, he opened the abscess and drained it, blotting the welling blood with gauze and closing his eyes briefly to fight back nausea.

"You okay, Doc?" Sheppard asked, frowning at him from the other side of the table.

"Perfectly," Rodney said crisply. "I missed lunch—makes me a little hypoglycemic. Can you get me a coffee with two sugars? Katie'll show you where the kitchen is."

"Yeah, okay," Sheppard said, and by the time he got back with a mug of coffee the worst was over and Rodney was taping down a dressing.

"You're extremely lucky," Rodney said when Ronon was bandaged up and had downed a bottle of Gatorade. "Any worse and it'd have affected your spine. I suggest you stick to nipple rings in future." 

Sheppard made a strangled choking noise but went on helping Ronon into his shirt. "Where you staying, buddy? Got someone to look after you?"

"No, I just got here," Ronon said.

"Hmm. You lookin' for work?"

"Yeah. On the boats." 

"Uh-huh. I'll have a word with Lorne. He might be hiring." Sheppard looked over at Rodney. "Lorne works as a deputy with me part-time, when he's not out fishing."

"No work for the rest of the week," Rodney said, pulling over a prescription pad and filling in details. "And get these antibiotics at the drug store. You're not allergic to anything?" 

"Nope," Ronon said. 

"Wait," Rodney waved the script. "I need an address."

"I think Radek's got a spare room," Sheppard said. "You know—Radek Zelenka, the vet? Put his address down—we'll go see him."

"Thanks, Doc," Ronon said. He stepped forward and without warning hugged Rodney, lifting him off the ground.

"Put me down, you Neanderthal!" Rodney squeaked, unable to flail with his arms pinned to his sides. "And you can wipe that grin off your face!" he snapped at Sheppard, brushing himself off once Ronon had released him. 

"Not sure I can at that," Sheppard said, still smirking. "C'mon, buddy." He clapped Ronon on the shoulder. 

* * *

Rodney was headed for the Puddlejumper to get lunch. It was later than usual as the lab had kept him waiting for Danny Olsen's test results, but maybe Sheppard would still be there. It wasn't like there was a crime wave in Pegasus Harbor to keep him busy. 

Several yards away, Sheppard stepped out of the Puddlejumper. A brown-haired, pretty woman followed and put a hand on his arm. Rodney stopped dead then turned away, pretending to window shop. It was the hardware store, but so what? Possibly he needed a set of steak knives to stab that bitch with her hands all over Sheppard. He watched their reflections surreptitiously in the window, annoyed at the way she pawed him. Sheppard didn't look like he was loving it, but he wasn't stopping her either. He hadn't mentioned any new fling, but it wasn't like they talked about that sort of thing at their semi-regular lunches. Superpowers they'd like to have, or the merits of hockey versus football, yes. Relationships, no. 

Damn, they were coming his way. Rodney hurried back uphill then nipped into the drug store. He needed to collect those supplies he'd ordered, anyway. 

Lindsey Novak, wearing her usual cervical collar, lit up when he entered. "Dr. McKay! What can I—hic—do for you?" She was virtually the only person in town who used his correct title but as she did it to emphasize their elite status in the town's small clique of medical professionals, it annoyed him—no way was her qualification equivalent to his own degrees. He was sure her hiccups were psychosomatic and there was no way in hell that wearing a physical neck brace was a treatment for them—they were involuntary muscle spasms of the diaphragm, which was nowhere near the neck! But Novak was convinced it helped and refused to remove the collar or let him examine her.

He looked back at the road, in time to see Sheppard and the dark-haired woman pass by, intent on some discussion. Neither of them glanced into the drug store.

"Oh, there go John and—hic—Chaya," Novak said. "They do look good together." Rodney swiveled and glared at her.

Novak raised her hands and stepped back. "Not that they are, her being his cousin—hic—but then that's legal, of course, so we mustn't judge."

"I'm here for my swabs and tongue depressors, not for far-fetched gossip," Rodney snarled. 

Novak scurried off to locate his supplies, but just when he had himself under slightly better control, she said, "I heard she's setting up a practice here."

"She's _what_?" Rodney felt a headache coming on. 

"Oh, not—hic—as an MD," Novak said placatingly. "I gather she's an herbalist."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Rodney spat, snatching his packages and striding out. 

He next heard about Chaya later that afternoon when Danny Olsen's dad ran into the clinic carrying Danny, pushing through the others in the waiting room. "It's his asthma, Doc. He can't breathe!"

Rodney got Danny through to the office and onto oxygen and a nebulizer without delay and the kid bounced back fairly quickly. He took Danny's dad aside. "His test results didn't show any chest infection, so what brought this on? Has he been using his inhalers properly?"

The man looked uncomfortable. "Look, I didn't agree, okay? But Susie wanted to try it."

Rodney frowned. "Try what?"

"The drops that Chaya woman prescribed. Homeopathic, or herbs, or something."

"And he's had those instead of his usual medication?" 

"Well, yeah. She said the drops were better for him, that she could cure him."

"And that's worked so well," Rodney said acidly, waving a hand at Danny. "Any worse and I'd have had to admit him to the hospital."

Danny's father's face creased with worry. "We can't afford no hospital or ambulances, Doc. There's work on the boats for me here, but they don't got health plans, y'know?"

"Then make sure he uses those inhalers regularly, as prescribed. Do I need to talk to your wife as well?"

"No, I'll tell her. She's pretty shaken up. Was that stuff Chaya gave us bad for him, then?"

"Probably only sugar water," Rodney said wearily, "but completely useless to treat asthma. Just get him back on the inhalers."

He couldn't deal with it then as the waiting room was full, and then another idiot told him they were "taking those drops from that lovely young woman, Chaya". By the end of the day, he'd found three of them using her nonsense, and his headache was pounding. One woman had even given him a pamphlet with Chaya's photo on it, covered in barefaced lies about the wonders of homeopathy. He'd dumped that in the waste bin and reduced her to tears with a thorough telling-off.

They'd told him Chaya had set herself up in a spare room off the back of the general store, so he marched down there after evicting the last patient, to sort her out. 

"Doc Mack," she said, rising from a table where she'd been filling small dark brown bottles with an unknown liquid.

Rodney eyed the bottles suspiciously, then turned his glare on Chaya. "I'll thank you not to interfere with my patients' treatment. Your meddling nearly killed Danny Olsen."

Chaya shook her head pityingly. "It's always sad to encounter a blinkered medical mind. You should read more widely about naturopathy. There are more things, Doc, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Rodney snorted. "Philosophy's got nothing to do with it. You're a charlatan, defrauding the ignorant with ineffective nonsense. Homeopathy was completely disproved years ago so you're just ripping people off!"

Chaya stood, frowning. "I've got every right to offer an alternative to the medical model. Your so-called science can't cure most people, Doc, because you're not treating the whole person and you completely overlook the spiritual aspect."

Rodney leaned over the table and shook his finger at her. "You're not treating anything at _all_ with that nonsense! I won't tell you again: leave my patients alone!"

"People have a right to choose which practitioner they see," Chaya said, crossing her arms and setting her jaw.

Rodney scowled at her some more, then decided he was wasting his time and stomped out. On the street, he paused, considering what to do next. So Sheppard was her cousin, was he? Then it was his job to deal with the woman.

Sheppard had his boots up on the desk in his office, reading an official-looking document. He set it aside and swung his feet down as Rodney entered. "Well, hello, Doc. Nice of you to ring the bell before charging in here."

Rodney waved that away impatiently. "You have to do something about her, Sheppard!"

Sheppard raised his eyebrows. "About who? There some crime being committed I don't know about?"

"There most certainly is!" Rodney glanced at the visitors' chairs but decided to remain standing. "It's that woman, Chaya Sar, who I gather is a relative of yours. She's handing out homeopathic bullshit to my patients. Danny Olsen had a bad asthma attack because she persuaded his parents to stop his medication."

Sheppard pulled a face. "Yeah, see, that's kind of tricky. You'd need proof she's deliberately defrauding people, and there's a lot of folks think natural remedies are just fine."

"She's your cousin, so _do_ something about her!"

"She's my _second_ cousin who I hadn't seen in years, and I'd be just as happy if she pissed off out of here." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking harassed. "She turned up a couple days ago thinking she could stay with me."

"What, she wanted to share that tiny bedroom?" Rodney realized he sounded a bit too outraged when Sheppard raised an eyebrow.

"Not once she'd seen the set-up here." He grinned wryly. "Me crashing at work paid off, I guess. She'd probably assumed I was, you know, a functioning adult who lived in a house, or something."

"Well, I live where I work as well," Rodney said, meaning to reassure Sheppard that it wasn't so strange, then realizing he wasn't the poster child for healthy social adjustment either. "Whatever," he barreled on, waving a hand. "She has to stop handing out that homeopathic garbage to my patients. Someone's going to get seriously ill."

"What part of 'not my area' don't you understand, Doc?" Sheppard said, frowning up at him. "I get that you're concerned, but as far as I know she's not even charging money—she's calling them free samples."

"It's part of her scheme," Rodney said darkly. "She probably lures people in then gets her hooks in them. She'll be relying on you to protect her because she's family."

Sheppard stood abruptly and came around the desk, taking Rodney's elbow and hustling him out. "If you knew anything about my family, McKay, you'd know breaking the law for them is the last goddamn thing I'd do, and I resent the implication."

"Well, I'm sorry to have touched a nerve," Rodney protested as he was pushed none too gently toward the front door, "but I have to do _some_ thing!" He hovered on the step, turning back to where Sheppard stood, his jaw tight. "Um, I don't suppose you want to watch a DVD tonight? I was planning to get pizza."

Sheppard exhaled, glaring up at Rodney from under furrowed brows. Then he took a deep breath. "Man, you're a real piece of work, McKay."

"Well, yes," Rodney said, flinching a little. "So what else is new?"

Sheppard huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. "Jesus. Okay, I'll see you at seven."

"Right, right," Rodney said, backing away and half falling out onto the street. He fluttered a hand in a sort-of wave. "See you... yes. See you then, then."

Wincing, he turned and headed down the hill, planning to pick up the pizzas on his way home. There was a scrabbling noise and he looked down to see the shaggy gray dog accompanying him. It looked up, tongue lolling in a grin. "And you can shut the hell up right fucking now!" he said sharply. The dog barked cheerfully and ambled on beside him.

Back home, Rodney decided to use the time before Sheppard arrived to get started on the Chaya problem. He switched on the reception computer and ran some Google searches. No dice. Remembering the pamphlet, he fished it out of the office waste bin, scanned in her picture, and called up a facial recognition program. He left it running and went to make sure the living room wasn't too bad. It was, so he brought an armload of dirty dishes back to the kitchen and washed them, then checked the computer again.

There was a hit, Chaya's face highlighted on the screen on a website warning about fraudsters. "Ha!" Rodney exclaimed, vindicated. Apparently she'd absconded with $5000 worth of donations after posing as the "Divine Mother" of a cult, and there was a list of aliases: Chaya Athar, Athar Sar, and Chaya Sar. She was wanted on fraud charges in two states under the name Athar, so maybe Sheppard wouldn't have found her if he'd checked for a record. Not that he necessarily would have, Rodney thought. As far as Sheppard knew she was just a nuisance.

Rodney printed off the information about Chaya for Sheppard, then stopped, papers in hand. It would put him on the spot, telling him this. Rodney didn't want to gloat about someone connected to Sheppard's family, even distantly, being a criminal. Plus, it'd ruin the evening. Sheppard would either be annoyed and broody, or he'd go charging off to confront her. He bit his lip, unsure what to do. He didn't really give a damn what she'd done elsewhere, he just wanted her far away from Pegasus Harbor and his patients. If there were deluded idiots out there prepared to give cash to someone calling themselves the "Divine Mother", more fool them.

No, he'd confront her tomorrow himself—once she saw what he had on her she'd go quietly, without troubling Sheppard. Rodney slid the papers into his bag in the office and went to switch on the oven to reheat the pizzas.

"You seem cheerful," Sheppard said later when Rodney let him in. "Figured you'd still be pissed about the evils of homeopathy."

"Just looking forward to a pleasant evening," Rodney said, leading the way through to the kitchen which smelled wonderfully of cheese and sausage. "And I don't think we'll need to worry about homeopathy for too much longer."

Sheppard shot him a quizzical look but Rodney distracted him by taking the pizzas out of the oven and returning them to their boxes. In his opinion pizza tasted better when eaten off cardboard. Sheppard peered over his shoulder and nodded approvingly. "Mmm, pepperoni—that's enough to cheer anyone up. Or are you looking forward to the movie?"

Rodney grabbed the pizzas and a roll of paper towels and grinned at him, almost bouncing on his feet. "Oh yeah, I'm excited about the movie, all right."

"What is it?"

" _Blade Runner: The Final Cut_!" Rodney said, beaming. "I got an early copy." Well, he'd torrented it, but Sheppard didn't need to know that.

"Yeah?" Sheppard grinned and hefted the six-pack of beer he'd brought. "Then what are we waiting for?"

* * *

Rodney was wrenched out of a dream of Sheppard doing wickedly delicious things to his person by some blockhead banging loudly on the front door. He was annoyed to be woken as he and Sheppard hadn't even kissed yet, and who knew if they ever would.

He squinted at the clock, saw with alarm that it read 10.00 AM and half-fell out of bed, pulling on yesterday's clothes before he remembered it was Sunday so there was no clinic. Annoyed, he ran a hand through his hair and crossed to the window, opening it and peering down. "What the hell d'you want?"

A shiny, dark green convertible was parked in the lane with a blonde in the passenger seat applying lipstick in the rear-view mirror. Her companion was at Rodney's front door, hand raised to disturb the peace yet again. "Stop it with that racket!" Rodney said sharply.

The guy looked up and Rodney recognized Michael Kenmore from the hospital in New York. Kenmore had been a junior on Rodney's team a couple of years ago. He was competent enough, but Rodney'd never liked him. Not that he'd liked anyone, really, but Kenmore was especially odious—ambitious, and inclined to hold grudges.

"Dr. McKay?" Kenmore's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sorry to bother you at the weekend, but Jill and I were on vacation up here so I thought I'd drop by."

A likely story. Rodney frowned down at him. "What the hell d'you want?"

Kenmore raised his eyebrows. "Just being sociable, one colleague to another. Lovely place you've found to live. Quaint." He made a show of waving an encompassing hand. The clinic was up a hill from the harbor so the view took in pretty wooden houses with white trim nestling into green hillsides and beyond, blue water with moored fishing boats and sailboats.

Rodney scowled at it, then back down at Kenmore. "And?"

Kenmore sighed. "I wanted to ask for a recommendation. I've applied for a surgical post with the Lincoln Health group hereabouts, and it'd help if you gave me a reference and had a word with their chief of staff."

"No," Rodney said, and closed the window. After a pause, the banging resumed.

He opened the window again. "I've told you no, so fuck off."

Kenmore glared up at him. "It wouldn't take you a moment just to make a call–"

"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" snapped Rodney. "You were always a self-serving bastard, and I don't imagine you've changed." He leaned further out and included the shaggy dog. "And _you_ can piss off as well!"

He pulled the window shut and a moment later Kenmore yelled. "And _you're_ a washed-up neurotic who can't cut it anymore. Ha! Can't cut it—literally!" Rodney gritted his teeth as Kenmore gunned the car off down the lane.

" _Dick_ ," Rodney said succinctly, and went to have a shower.

On Monday he was about to walk down to the Puddlejumper for lunch when the phone rang. Katie answered it and Rodney continued to the door, figuring it was someone making an appointment. He didn't get far. "Emergency, Doc!" Katie called after him. "Down by the boat ramp. Cowen's had an accident!"

Damn the man. The Puddlejumper would probably be out of chili by the time he'd dealt with this. Rodney went back for his bag and ran for the door.

The site of the incident was obvious from the usual crowd of lollygaggers. "He's hurt, Doc!" called one of the teenage girls, looking more excited than upset.

Kavanagh, the local dentist with whom Rodney had already had words about an inappropriate prescription, smirked at him over the heads of the onlookers. "More your thing than mine," he said. "Provided you don't mind a bit of blood."

Rodney pushed his way through the crowd, his heart sinking. Cowen was propped up between two boats, left hand cradled to his chest, blood all over it and his shirt. Rodney stopped dead and shut his eyes, fighting down nausea. He broke out in a cold sweat, heart racing.

"You okay, Doc Mack?" asked another of the girls, stifling a giggle. Rodney swallowed convulsively, took a deep breath, and managed to quell the dizziness.

Averting his eyes he pushed forward to crouch down beside Cowen, his head turned away from the wound as he opened his bag to get a dressing. "What happened? How were you injured?"

"Well, I was opening a bottle—" Cowen started to say, but Rodney wasn't listening. There was no thick, metallic smell of blood. He flared his nostrils, sniffing suspiciously, then turned and glared at Cowen, reaching out to dab his finger in the 'blood' and taste it. Tomato. "—of ketchup!" Cowen continued, then laughed nastily. "Just as well it wasn't _real_ blood, eh, Doc? You looked like you were about to faint for a minute there." The crowd chortled along with him, clearly finding Rodney's distress a huge joke.

"Pass out," Rodney said tightly. "I don't faint. Um, or pass out, for that matter."

"Not what it looked like to me," Cowen said. "Something of a liability, don't you think, a doctor being afraid of blood? Not very ethical of you to keep that quiet."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing my job," Rodney snapped, shutting his bag and pushing back out through the gossiping crowd. The teenage girls were pretending to faint and letting people catch them. He hoped someone missed and they cracked their stupid heads open.

He couldn't get lunch at the Puddlejumper now. It was just across the road and these idiots would most likely follow him in there and continue their ridicule. Rodney looked longingly over at the board advertising the "Chili Special", and then his eyes narrowed. A green convertible was pulling out from the curb by the restaurant. As it passed, Kenmore gave him the finger.

Rodney scowled after him. That explained how they'd known about the phobia. He hunched his shoulders and trudged off to the general store for an inadequate tuna sandwich to take back to the clinic.

The afternoon was strangely quiet. A little after two when the lull in patients had stretched on for more than half an hour, Rodney came out into the waiting room. "Quiet day," he said to Katie.

She blushed. "Ah, yeah, Doc. I think maybe you'd better hear this." She turned up the volume on a small portable radio she kept on her desk. He'd considered banning it but the patients seemed to like it, and what she played was innocuous, if trite, sax and strings versions of well-known classics.

He recognized the program immediately. Kate Heightmeyer was the local Pegasus Radio DJ and in the afternoons she did a talkback session called "Dear Kate", reading letters sent in by listeners with personal problems, handing out predictable counseling advice, and discussing the issues with anyone who called. Rodney recognized her caller's voice as well.

"Really, Kate, I think questions need to be asked about his fitness to practice." Kavanagh.

"He was incapable of dealing with the injury?" Heightmeyer asked, voice filled with fake concern.

"It certainly looked like that to those of us who were present, but of course it was a simulation, not a real injury," Kavanagh said, and Rodney clenched his fists. There was no way a malicious practical joke could be called a 'simulation'.

Katie turned the volume down. "They've been going on about it for almost an hour," she said apologetically. "Him, Cowen, and a few others, phoning in. Not long after they got underway, people started calling to cancel."

"Right," Rodney said through clenched teeth. Katie stared up at him soulfully, her green eyes wide. "I'll catch up on my reading, then," he said stiffly—the last thing he wanted was pity. He retreated to his office and sat numbly at his desk, head in hands. Great. Just great. He was fucked. Everything was fucked.

Jeannie rang at about four o'clock. "I caught the tail end of it on the radio," she said. "Are you okay, Mer?"

"I'll live," he said shortly. "Whether I'll have any patients left is another matter."

"It'll be a storm in a teacup," Jeannie said firmly. "Things blow up fast here but they die down quickly as well. Just try not to piss off too many people in the meantime."

"Well, that's a lost cause, then," Rodney said, and put the phone down.

He tried to read, hoping that eviscerating his dimwitted medical colleagues would lift his mood or at least provide some distraction, but writing scorching comments in journal margins was less fun than usual.

By the time someone knocked on his door just after six o'clock Rodney had more or less given up. He jumped up to answer it, half hoping some villager had had a heart attack or lapsed into a coma. Preferably Kavanagh, but given his luck lately, that was unlikely.

"Um, hi," John said, hovering awkwardly on the doorstep. He raised a takeout bag. "Fish and chips? It's on tonight's menu at the PJ."

Rodney stood aside to let him in, slightly thrown by the warm, sappy feeling uncoiling in his guts. He must have been hungrier than he'd realized. "I hope there's no lemon in that?" he asked curtly, to hide his relief.

"Nah, I made sure," Sheppard said with a smile.

They ate at the kitchen table, dipping their fries in ketchup and swigging bottles of a designer ale Rodney'd ordered through Elizabeth. If Sheppard insisted on drinking beer, at least Rodney could make sure it wasn't crap like Budweiser. Sheppard told him about his exciting day inventorying the emergency equipment, then being called out to a nearby beach to stop a fight between two surfers.

"Girlfriend troubles?" Rodney asked.

"Nope," Sheppard said. "One of them was pissed the other copied his tattoo."

"Sounds like a match made in heaven," Rodney said, and Sheppard snorted agreement.

They cleared away the detritus of the meal. "There's chocolate chip ice cream if you want," Rodney said. "And, ah, I've got a PlayStation upstairs, hooked up to the TV." He waved a hand. "If you... that is..."

"Hell, yeah!" Sheppard said, beaming. "I'll get more beers from the fridge. You bring the ice cream."

Several games later, Sheppard put down the controller and blew out a breath, then grabbed a fresh beer for himself and passed one to Rodney. They were on the couch and Rodney had almost gotten used to casually brushing elbows and knees with Sheppard as they played. Almost.

"Crappy day, huh?" Sheppard asked, not making eye contact.

Rodney tensed up. He wasn't sure if he could talk about it with Sheppard, who'd probably heard that damn radio show or been given a lurid version by the gossip mill. "Yes," he said cautiously.

Sheppard took another swig of beer. "I wasn't always a cop," he said. Rodney shot him a puzzled glance. Sheppard met his eyes briefly and shrugged. "Used to be in the Air Force, flying choppers, mostly. In Afghanistan." He waved a hand. "Evac, that kinda thing."

Rodney nodded. He wasn't sure what this was about, but presumably Sheppard was going somewhere with it.

"Yeah, well, I was wounded a few times—why I'm not too fond of hospitals, y'know?" Rodney nodded; he'd figured that much out. Sheppard rubbed his stubbled jaw. "One time, these guys I knew, another Evac squad, they got shot down." Sheppard wasn't drinking now, just staring into space. "I went out after them." He rocked a hand to and fro. "It wasn't exactly authorized. They were dead when I got there and I got a black mark on my record." He sighed and took another drink. "Then this other time I did it again—went out after Holland, a friend whose chopper'd been downed by an RPG. Tried to rescue him, but he bled out all over me. That time I was almost court-martialed—the brass were gonna send me to Antarctica to fly an air taxi." He shrugged. "So I left. Came back here, retrained."

Rodney wasn't sure what to say—it was all pretty much outside his experience. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"I'm not, not really." Sheppard peeled a strip of label off his beer bottle. "I miss flying choppers, but I've got a sweet little Cessna I take up at weekends, and I like it here." He shot Rodney a look. "I was never really cut out for the military—'authority issues', they said." He ripped off another bit of label. "Me and my old man. We never did get on."

"Hmmm," Rodney said. "I'm guessing this is to make it easier for me to reciprocate, so, um, thanks for sharing." He took a drink himself. "I guess you heard what happened with Cowen, and the radio program?"

Sheppard frowned. "Yeah. That was a shitty practical joke they played."

"I don't hide what happened in New York," Rodney said. "It's on my CV and the Licensing Board's aware, but I don't advertise my phobia to every patient I see. I can still do my job—I've been doing all my own blood draws since I got here. It's not easy, but I manage."

"What started it?" Sheppard asked.

Rodney sighed. "You have to be detached, as a surgeon, have to exercise a healthy level of denial. That old joke's true, about the difference between God and a surgeon."

"That God doesn't think he's a surgeon?" Sheppard asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, exactly. But you have to think you're invulnerable and omnipotent, to a degree, or you'd never make an incision." Rodney gulped and took a few deep breaths to banish the image. "Anyway, that was never a problem for me, before. You said you've got issues with your father, well, I've got that with _both_ my parents. I was precocious, very high IQ, and they didn't know what to do with me. I was difficult and understimulated and their marriage was on the rocks. Basically, I was a convenient scapegoat, so home was pretty miserable. I left home as early as I could to do a bioengineering degree, got my doctorate, then decided to train as an MD." He waved a hand. "Surgery fascinated me. It's like engineering, but so much more complex, more satisfying." He blew out a breath and set his bottle down on the coffee table, glancing across at Sheppard. "All those years of study didn't leave room for social skills, and anyway I was a surgeon. I didn't _want_ to get close to patients." He winced and waved a hand. "Well, or to anyone, really."

"I heard you were a pretty big cheese," Sheppard said quietly.

"At the top of my field, yes," Rodney said, his jaw set. "Then one day I saw this woman I was scheduled to operate on chatting with her family. I mean, I really _saw_ her, saw her as a person." He sighed. "And I just couldn't do it anymore—the responsibility was crushing. All I could see were the things that could go wrong." He ran a hand over his face and took a shaky breath. "I tried to force the panic down and carry on, but it was a disaster. I was sick and dizzy and I passed out in the OR, which let me tell you is humiliating for a surgeon. Med students and trainee nurses fainted and we made fun of them but top surgeons aren't allowed to turn green and collapse into the patient's open abdominal wound." He rested his head back on the couch and shut his eyes, steadying his breathing and fighting down nausea.

"Ouch," Sheppard said sympathetically.

"Yeah." Rodney opened his eyes. "That's when the blood phobia started. All I could think of was the _person_ it had come out of. I was nauseated and panicking and the stench of blood was all over me, all around me." He shuddered. "It's got a very particular smell."

"Oh, I know," Sheppard said grimly, and Rodney remembered his words: _he bled out all over me._

"Right, right, of course." Rodney grabbed for his beer again and took a long swallow. "So that combined with the fear that I'd fuck up, and I was paralyzed. I couldn't operate at all. I took sick leave but it didn't improve, and eventually, I resigned and came here. A scraped knee I can handle. A blood draw, I turn my head away as much as possible and it goes into a sealed vial. Injuries aren't easy but mostly they're trivial and I don't actually throw up. But major surgery? No way." He shook his head. "A friend, Carson Beckett, arranged the job here. And Jeannie's nearby."

"Yeah, your sister," Sheppard said. "I remember."

There was a pause while they both finished their beers, lost in thought. Finally, Rodney waved a hand at the TV. "D'you want to play anymore?"

"Nah, I'd better get home. But we should do it again," Sheppard said. He stood, and Rodney clambered up as well.

"Look, Sheppard, I'm sorry to have dumped all that on you," Rodney said hurriedly as they neared the front door.

Sheppard turned, his eyes shadowed and unreadable in the dim hallway light. "Reckon I started it. Also, I think you should call me John."

"Oh, right, yes. John." Rodney liked how it sounded. "Goodnight, John."

Sheppard put a hand on Rodney's shoulder and leaned in. He hesitated as if waiting to see if Rodney would pull away, and when he didn't, leaned the rest of the way. John's lips were soft against Rodney's, tentative. Jesus, they were kissing! Rodney opened his mouth to say...what? He had no idea, but their tongues brushed and suddenly he was in Sheppard's arms and it was a _real_ kiss, an open-mouthed, breath-stealing, knee-trembling kiss.

Sheppard pulled back, panting. "Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse. "Uh, yeah. Um, see you, Rodney." He slipped out the door and vanished into the night.

Rodney stood there for a while, poleaxed. "John," he said softly, testing it out and touching his still-tingling lips. Then he shut the door and went to bed.

* * *

Jeannie was right about the townsfolk having short attention spans and Rodney's waiting room soon filled up again. He didn't see John for a few days, but then he turned up for lunch at the Puddlejumper.

"John, hi. Haven't, um, seen you for a bit," Rodney said, flushing slightly. He glanced quickly at Sheppard, unsure if it was okay to call him John in public. Was that private? Their secret? Rodney winced and told himself to get a grip. For fuck's sake—it was just Sheppard's name.

"Hi, Rodney," Sheppard said wearily. "Training course in Brunswick on firearms safety, like I needed that. Total waste of time."

Rodney flapped a dismissive hand. "Tell me about it. I've got some pen-pusher called Woolsey from the Licensing Board wants to see me. Bureaucratic nonsense."

They arranged to get together for pizza and a DVD the following evening and Rodney went back to work feeling cheerful, for once not minding the endless stream of coughs, bad knees, and athlete's foot. He'd just wound down at the end of the day and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich to have in front of the TV, when the phone rang.

"Me again," Sheppard—no, John—said. "Look, this is kinda awkward, but we need you over at the Vet Clinic. Radek Zelenka's place. I came by to collect Buddy after his op, and… well, there's a situation."

"Whose buddy? What?" Rodney asked, baffled. He glanced longingly at the kitchen table where his delicious cheese sandwich was congealing on the plate. "I don't treat animals, although admittedly some of the surfers barely qualify as human."

"No, it's not– Look, I was just here because Buddy's been fixed. The dog? Shaggy, gray fur, follows you around?"

"That mutt?" Rodney screwed up his face. "Are you still encouraging it?"

"I'm adopting him," John said with thinning patience. "But it's not about him. Just that when I got here there was a medical… emergency. I mean, there still is. Look, just get your ass over here, willya? You know where Radek's place is."

"Yes, but John–"

"Do it, Rodney. I gotta go help Radek." The call cut off. Rodney frowned at the phone: John had hung up on him.

"Emergency?" he muttered as he got his bag and the Volvo's keys. "It had better be a goddamn _medical_ emergency."

The dog was in John's SUV outside the vet clinic, panting cheerfully and smearing saliva all over the rear window. Rodney snarled at it as he edged past.

Inside, John looked relieved to see him and led the way up the stairs, down a hallway, and through a bedroom door. Ronon was shirtless, sitting on the side of a double bed in tight black leather pants, a matching black collar, and heavy leather wrist cuffs. Radek, who Rodney had met once at a mixer organized by Elizabeth and who'd impressed him as not being a complete moron, was hovering anxiously, wringing his hands.

"I'm so sorry," Zelenka was saying. "Ronon has a ridiculous pain threshold. How was I to know?"

Rodney looked up at the wall above the bed where steel handles had been fitted, dangling chains. A big metal loop was screwed into the ceiling over the bed, with ropes attached.

"It's his shoulder," John said, indicating Ronon. "It looks weird. Maybe dislocated?"

"You think?" Rodney pushed past him to examine his patient. The left shoulder was definitely dislocated anteriorly.

"I did not mean to hurt him," Radek was saying, making little fluttering gestures toward Ronon. "Well, not in this way–"

"You: shut up," Rodney told Zelenka. He peered at Ronon whose face was barely visible through his dreads. "Have you had this before?"

"Yeah," Ronon grunted, clearly in pain. "Couple times."

"You're an idiot," Rodney told him. "I can fix the dislocation but you'll need an X-ray, so make an appointment to see me. Any tingling or numbness in that shoulder or hand?"

"No… just… put it back," Ronon said through gritted teeth.

"Do I need to pull on anything or put my foot in his armpit?" John asked, looking keen.

"No, just pass my bag." Rodney drew up an injection and jabbed it into the enormous deltoid muscle on Ronon's good arm. "This is a muscle relaxant, and it'll ease the pain. The shoulder should go back okay as you've dislocated it before, but it's harder to do when there's a lot of muscle mass."

"Certainly he has excellent muscle mass," Zelenka murmured appreciatively. John cleared his throat, and Rodney saw his ears had flushed pink.

"I'm just going to pull on this steadily," Rodney said, ignoring them both and getting into position to raise Ronon's bad arm out to the side. "It shouldn't hurt too much and I'm not going to make any sudden moves."

"Better not," Ronon said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. "Still got that boot knife."

"Yes, yes, threaten your doctor, excellent plan," snapped Rodney, continuing to pull Ronon's arm out sideways and up until it was extended laterally. He slowly rotated the upper arm backward. Ronon clenched his teeth and then Rodney felt a soft _pop_ as the head of the humerus slid back into place, leaving Ronon's shoulder with a normal, rounded contour.

Ronon exhaled heavily and shook his dreads. "Thanks, Doc."

"It is done?" Radek slumped into an armchair, face in hands. " _Oh bože, moc ti děkuji_!"

"Let's see that wound on your back," Rodney said, and Ronon twisted to let him examine it. "Good, that's healed up well." He closed his bag and stepped back. "Ibuprofen or Tylenol if you need it. I won’t immobilize the arm, just be careful." He looked up at the ceiling contraption. "And I assume I don't need to mention that this doesn't constitute safe sex for you, with that shoulder?"

"Yeah, we get it," Ronon said, sighing.

Radek threw up his hands dramatically. "If I had known! I would never!"

Ronon reached back and patted his knee. " 's'okay, Radek. Plenty of other stuff we can do."

"Right, I'm out of here," Rodney announced hurriedly, hefting his bag and marching down the stairs.

"Never a dull moment in picturesque Pegasus Harbor," John said with a sheepish grin as they stood outside by their cars. The dog wagged furiously inside the SUV and barked once, peremptorily. John looked over at him. "Sorry, Buddy, coming."

"Er, yes," Rodney said. "Well. I'll see you tomorrow, then." He glanced sharply at the SUV. "Without the walking flea-factory."

"Aw, Rodney, you'll hurt his feelings," John said, pouting. "I just gave him a bath!"

"A likely story," Rodney said, trying not to smile as he stamped off to his car.

* * *

The Volvo bumped over the rough track leading from the road up to the park ranger station, and Rodney winced for the suspension. He'd expected to travel in John's SUV, as John had asked him to come and see Aiden Ford, the ranger. John had been oddly cagey about what the problem was, just saying he'd explain on the way. But when Rodney got to the police station all he found was a note stuck to the door saying **_sorry got to cancel, we'll do it another day._** Rodney had cleared his schedule specifically for this excursion, so he'd snorted in annoyance and scribbled **_don't bother I'll find my own way_** on the bottom of the note.

Rodney had tried calling Katie while driving out here, in fact he'd taken a small detour to a nearby hilltop in hopes of better reception but the coverage was still crappy. How the ranger managed he had no idea, but maybe he had a sat phone or something. Rodney could probably use it to get Katie to read out any details from his file at the clinic, if he needed them. It was just as well he'd checked the address before heading off to meet John.

The road crested a low hill and Rodney saw the ranger station nestled below in a cleared area, on the edge of a preserve that was presumably Ford's responsibility. The house looked to be in some sort of compound and surrounded by a high chain-link fence, which seemed like overkill to Rodney. Surely there couldn’t be much theft or vandalism way out here.

He parked outside a section of the fence that was hinged and padlocked to form a gate and called out, "Mr. Ford? It's Dr. McKay, from Atlantis Clinic in Pegasus Harbor. I gather you wanted to see me."

There was a clattering noise like something being knocked over, then the door opened and Ford stuck his head out. He sized Rodney up and ventured out, staring around suspiciously. Then he visibly relaxed and sauntered over to the fence.

"Doc!" Ford said cheerfully, unlocking the gate and pushing it aside just enough to let Rodney in. "It's good to see you. I've been wanting to catch up for a while but I can't really leave here." He tapped the side of his nose as he locked the gate again. "You know how it is."

Rodney did not, in fact, know how it was, and was mildly alarmed Ford had locked the gate behind him. The man was clearly a security nut. "Why can't you leave?" he asked, annoyed. If Ford had just attended the clinic like anyone else Rodney wouldn't have had to waste time driving all the way out here. "You must need to get groceries, and this can't be the only preserve you're in charge of."

"No, it's the biggest, though, so I had to prioritize. It's all about strategy, right?"

All Rodney knew about Ford was that he was an ex-Marine so presumably, this was some nonsense from his military background. He had a buzz cut and was tidily dressed in quasi-military fashion in olive green cargo pants and a black t-shirt, and once they stepped inside, Rodney saw that the inside of the ranger base was neat as a pin. The only odd detail was a piratical eye-patch over Ford's left eye, black against his dark skin, presumably an old injury from his days as a Marine.

"Siddown, Doc," Ford said genially, gesturing at a plain wooden table with three straight-backed wooden chairs around it. Rodney took a seat and put down his bag. "Now—tea? Or d'you prefer coffee?"

That was a no-brainer, especially after the distance he'd had to travel. "Coffee, please. Black, no sugar."

"Hardcore, Doc! A man after my own heart." He bustled off to make the coffee, using a percolator, not the instant muck Rodney had expected. When they were both seated with steaming mugs, Ford said brightly. "Okay, Doc. What can I do for you?"

Rodney frowned. "I'd understood that _you_ wanted to see me, Mr. Ford."

Ford grinned. "Hey, call me Aiden, no need to stand on ceremony."

Rodney smiled thinly. He preferred to use surnames where possible, except with children, who he preferred not to see at all, not that he had any choice about _that_. First names were just another annoying detail to remember, and he had more important things to focus on. "Mr. Ford—Aiden—it was John Sheppard, the police chief, who asked me to visit. I thought you must have left him a message." He waved a hand. "Phone reception's terrible out here, so maybe you use a radio or something?"

Ford sat back in his chair. "Oh right, Sheppard—he drops by sometimes. He was in the services too—I guess you know I used to be a Marine?" Rodney nodded and sipped his coffee. Ford leaned forward, grinning. "Mind you, Sheppard was only in the chair force, get it? The _chair_ force." Rodney mustered half a smile at the tired joke and drank some more coffee. It was really quite good. "Still," Ford continued generously, "Sheppard's okay."

"And why would he have wanted me to see you?" Rodney persisted. Much more of this and he'd give up and hit the road back to Pegasus Harbor.

"Probably 'cause I mentioned I was low on medication," Ford said casually.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Rodney said. "What's the name of the medication? Or, better still, just show me the package or bottle."

"Shall I get you a top-up, Doc?" Ford said, taking Rodney's mug and heading for the kitchen. Rodney sighed, annoyed, and checked his watch. He'd wasted over an hour already.

Armed with fresh coffee, Rodney tried again. "So, the medication? What's it for, and how long have you been on it?"

Ford looked shifty. "Well, it's a bit tricky, to be honest, but the old doc, he was very helpful."

"Tricky in what way?" Rodney asked, caught between impatience and a growing sense of unease.

Ford shrugged awkwardly. "It's not exactly for _me_ , y'see."

Rodney peered around, seeing no sign of another person's possessions. "Someone else lives here?" Sheppard hadn't mentioned that, but then he hadn't told Rodney much at all. "But why couldn't they get their own prescription from the old– from my predecessor."

"He's… shy, you might say," Ford confided, glancing at the windows as though to check whether someone was out there. "He's been through some rough times. I'm his only friend, the only one he'll talk to." He made a face. "Well, I'm not so much his friend as his… teammate, y'know? But you got to look after your own. 'Leave no man behind', and all that."

"Wait, wait," Rodney set down the coffee and rubbed his forehead. "Are you saying you've got an… an ex-military colleague living here? Who never leaves the property?" He was starting to wonder if Ford ever left here either, but surely he must.

Ford nodded. "That's about the size of it. He was my C.O., Col. Sumner, in Afghanistan. Man, we thought we had problems there, but we didn't know the half of it!"

"Problems?" Rodney asked warily.

" _Aliens_ , man," Ford said intensely. "And not those cute li'l big-eyed critters like on Roswell. Big fuckers that suck the life outta you with their hands!" He leaned back, eyebrows raised, nodding emphatically.

Great, just great. Ford was psychotic, or maybe manic, but he didn't seem especially elevated. The medication was hopefully an antipsychotic, but given the impression Rodney had formed of his predecessor's incompetence, it could just as easily be a sedative or placebo. Rodney rubbed his temples again; he felt tired just contemplating this mess, and his mouth was dry.

"Right," Rodney said, biting his lip and trying to think how best to handle Ford. "So this… person, he used to be your C.O.?" Ford nodded emphatically. "And he's…" he waved a hand, "here, somewhere?"

Ford nodded again and leaned in earnestly. "He hangs out in the woods mostly, on account of the aliens might catch him and suck his life-force dry." He suddenly scrambled to his feet, facing the door and snapping to attention with a crisp salute. "Colonel, sir. Good to see you!"

Rodney turned to look, but there was no one else in the room. "What? Who–"

Ford had adopted a stance now with his legs spread and hands clasped behind his back and was nodding briskly, ignoring Rodney and talking to nothing. "Yessir, this is Doc Mack, a medic." There was a pause during which Ford seemed to be listening, then he nodded sharply. "Yessir, very good, sir."

"There's no one here, Ford," Rodney said irritably. "Just us. Sumner's a figment of your imagination."

Ford returned to his seat at the table and frowned at Rodney. "Look, I know you're a civilian, Doc, but you shouldn't disrespect the colonel. You'll hurt his feelings, not using his rank." He looked at the window. "Anyway, he's gone back out again. He's on a mission."

Rodney sighed. "Have it your own way. So why do you– why does _he_ need medication?"

"For the stress," Ford explained. "See, back in the 'stan, the Taliban caught the colonel when our squad was patrolling, and you know you're a goner if that happens. They dragged him off and I could see in his eyes he wanted me to mercy-kill him, but I was scared I'd be accused of fragging, so I didn't take the shot." Ford sank his head in his hands and took a shuddering breath, then got himself under control and looked up at Rodney. "It's not that easy being Black in the forces." He sat up. "So the brass declared the colonel KIA, but he wasn't!" Ford beamed, triumphant. "He turned up here a few years back, an' asked if I could help him out. He's living off the grid, though, and he's in a bad way." Ford tapped the side of his nose and whispered, "PTSD." He glanced back at the window, then spoke more normally. "So I gotta get the meds for him." He leaned forward, conspiratorial. "When Col. Sumner came back, that's when I learned about the aliens."

"Ah, yes, the aliens," Rodney said, and yawned. He was having difficulty taking this nonsense seriously. With an effort, he continued. "And where _are_ these aliens?"

"They beam down," Ford explained, making the shape of a tall cone with his hands. "First there's this high-pitched whinin' noise—that's their spaceships—then they just appear out of nowhere in a flash of light." He leaned in and prodded Rodney's arm. "The colonel says one of them's lurking in the woods, so he's out there tracking it." He shook his head. "It's no joke, living rough and hiding from aliens. They can suck you up in those beams, they catch you in the open. That's why I don't go out much, and that's why Col. Sumner needs the meds."

Rodney lifted his head, realizing only then that for some reason he'd laid it down on his arms, and blinked. He was really very tired. "So the medication's for… anxiety? A…a sedative?"

"Uh-huh. The colonel really needs it, man. Once you see one of those aliens, you'll understand." Ford shivered.

"I thing thas highly… impr… obble," Rodney tried, but his tongue was thick and wouldn't form the words. He tried to sit up but his muscles were made of jello. "You put… meds… in m' coffee…" he slurred, unable to muster a properly accusatory tone. His head sank down onto his arms again.

"Well, I know how busy you must be, Doc," Ford said reasonably. "And you gotta stay here until the colonel gets back. He was planning to bring in an alien so you can dissect it." He patted Rodney's arm. "Not to worry, man, Col. Sumner an' me'll keep you safe." The last thing Rodney saw was an enormous hunting knife Ford had produced from somewhere and laid on the table in front of Rodney's nose. Then everything mercifully faded away.

* * *

"Rodney? Wake up, damn it!" It was John's voice, sounding worried. He shook Rodney's shoulder and Rodney blearily opened his eyes.

"Wuh?"

"Lt. Ford, parade rest this instant! So help me, if you've hurt him I'll–"

Rodney heard Ford scrambling into position. "Permission to explain, sir?"

"Make it good," John said grimly.

"The Doc's just been sleeping for a couple hours. I wouldn't've let the aliens get him, sir. Me and the colonel've been on guard."

"Gave me… his meds," Rodney mumbled, his tongue thick. He pawed vaguely at Sheppard's shirt. "Water… and coffee… "

"Yeah, okay." John's hand left his shoulder and Rodney felt oddly bereft. He was relieved when John returned a moment later and gently prodded him upright, putting a mug of cold water in his hands. He lifted it clumsily and drank half of it down. John went back to the counter then brought him a mug of coffee. "I made it fresh, in case," he said, shooting a look at Ford, who hadn't moved. "Just instant, I'm afraid."

"Give it here," Rodney said, taking a big gulp. He glanced at Ford and lowered his voice. "He needs hospitalizing," he muttered.

John winced. "Is that really necessary? He doesn't do well away from here. It'd have been okay if I'd been with you but you came charging out here by yourself."

"You stood me up," Rodney said, annoyed. "And you didn't tell me about…" he waved a hand at the cabin, encompassing Ford, hands clasped behind his back as he faced impassively ahead, and the forest outside filled with hallucinated aliens and commanding officers.

"I broke a tooth on a Snickers bar," John admitted. "I was stuck in Kavanagh's dentist chair with my mouth full of local and cotton wool."

" _Kavanagh_ ," Rodney said darkly, and drank more water.

"Look, what if I get Ford to take the medication instead of admitting him? I can persuade him, I'm sure."

"What, you'll come here every day and give it to him until he's okay?" Rodney said skeptically.

John nodded. "Yeah, if that's what it takes."

"Leave no man behind, huh?" He managed a crooked smile.

John smiled back. "That's how it is, yeah."

Rodney looked over at Ford, who hadn't moved. "Will you take the medication if John, er, if…"

"Major Sheppard," John prompted, a little sheepishly.

"If Major Sheppard here orders you to?"

"Yessir," Ford said, "me an' the colonel both."

Rodney sighed. "Just take your dose and leave the colonel to sort himself out. How much have you got left? I need to see the container."

"I'll get it," John said, bringing Rodney a bottle with Novak's pharmacy label. Zolpidem 10mg tablets, one at bedtime. So it was just sleeping medication, useless for Ford's psychosis. There were five tablets left.

"This will do for now, but we need to add a new medication, something… more effective for stress. It's called risperidone."

"You hear that, Lieutenant?" Sheppard's voice was sharp. "You'll take this tonight, and I'll bring the new prescription out tomorrow and supervise you."

"Yessir, that's copacetic. The colonel'll be relieved, sir."

Rodney opened his bag and found his pad, writing the prescription for both medications and giving it to John, who pocketed it. "He'll need both—at least until the new stuff kicks in, in a week or two." John nodded.

"And now, Major Sheppard, I'd like to get out of here." Rodney got to his feet, still a little wobbly. "Oh, but what about my Volvo?"

"I'll call Lorne, have him and Ronon collect it. C'mon, Rodney, let's get you home."

At the door, John turned back. "Dismissed, Lieutenant. I'll see you tomorrow at 1400."

Ford saluted, then relaxed. "You know where the key is, Major."

"Yeah, we'll let ourselves out. Don't give Lorne and Ronon any trouble when they come for the Doc's car, you hear?"

"Copy that, sir. No problem."

Rodney dozed some more on the drive back, but he felt refreshed and reasonably alert by the time John pulled up at the clinic, which Katie had locked for the day.

"You got any food in there?" John asked.

"No, I thought we'd be eating out." He pulled a face, "I don't feel up to braving the Puddlejumper tonight."

John nodded. "We'll go to my place so I can keep an eye on you. I'll order something in and we can watch the latest DVD I rented."

"I might fall asleep during it," Rodney admitted.

"I might just join you," John said, grinning. "It's David Lynch's _Dune_."

"Okay, now I'm definitely falling asleep to avoid Kyle McLachlan's dreadful over-acting."

"The sandworms are cool, though," John said, putting the SUV in gear and rolling off down the lane. "We can just watch that part."

* * *

Rodney sent the fifth pale and sweaty patient that morning off to the bathroom clutching a stool sample container. A couple of days had passed since his adventures at the ranger station and he was none the worse for wear. John said Ford was taking the new medication without protest.

"Another one?" Katie asked, looking worried.

"Yes, vomiting and diarrhea," Rodney said tiredly. "They must all have been exposed to the same source of infection."

"Teyla called. She wants you to go by the school."

He sighed. "Don't tell me—the children have it as well?"

Katie nodded apologetically. "And some of the staff."

Rodney snapped his bag shut. "I'll go now, then get lunch. Anyone else with the runs, collect a stool specimen and tell them to get some Oral Rehydration Solution from Novak. You'd better call the drug store and warn her to order more in."

There wasn't much he could do at the school except hand out the same advice. "Or Gatorade will do in a pinch," he told Teyla, "if Novak runs out of electrolyte solution."

She looked worried. "Drinks with sugar and food coloring aren't good for them either, Dr. McKay. They can get hyperactive."

Rodney looked down at the row of drooping, miserable children on the benches outside her office. One boy looked dangerously green and Rodney shoved a waste bin at him, grimacing and turning his head away as the kid threw up. Teyla fussed over the boy with paper towels and gave him a bottle of water. "There's no proof of that theory, and I don't think that's your main problem at the moment," Rodney said grimly.

A noisy gaggle of excited children clutching rolled towels was ushered past by Kaleb who nodded at Rodney as they passed. "We'll be back for lunch," Kaleb told Teyla.

Rodney frowned after them. "Where are they off to?"

"The municipal pool. Each class has a scheduled swimming day."

Rodney gestured at the children on the benches. "And this lot? When did they go swimming?"

"Yesterday," Teyla replied. "But surely it can not–"

"Keep their fluids up," Rodney snapped, already heading after Kaleb and his charges. "And cancel the swimming lessons for now."

An engineer called Bill Lee was in charge of the town's water treatment plant, and of maintaining the municipal pool "You'll have to close it," Rodney said. The pool could be the source of everyone's diarrhea, with swimmers picking up the infection there and taking it back to their families.

"We can't do that," Lee protested, looking harried. "And I keep it perfectly chlorinated. There's no way the pool's the source!"

"Show me your testing data," Rodney demanded.

Lee went to his computer, which was showing a World of Warcraft screen. He flushed and dismissed it, displaying graphs with pH and chlorine levels. Rodney leaned in and studied them. It all looked in order, but some microbes were impervious to chlorine.

"You'll have to send a sample for urgent testing and close the pool meanwhile," he said. "For all I know you've been too busy racking up magic elf points to do your job properly."

"I resent that!" Lee spluttered as Rodney strode out. "And for your information, I'm a Level 75 Mage!"

"Test the main water supply as well," Rodney told him, and made his way to the Puddlejumper. Sheppard was already there, drinking Elizabeth's home-made iced tea and eating a turkey sandwich with potato chips.

"You'd be safer with cooked food," Rodney said, dropping into the opposite chair. Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "There's a gastrointestinal infection doing the rounds," Rodney explained. "I just shut down the swimming pool."

Sheppard lowered his half-eaten sandwich and screwed up his face. "You can do that?"

"Public health emergency," Rodney said breezily, stealing some chips. They were packaged, so they should be safe. Sheppard batted his hand away.

"What'll you have, Rodney?" Elizabeth asked, wielding her notebook. "We've got a nice caesar salad today."

"Too risky," Rodney said. "I want something thoroughly cooked."

"There's lasagna," Elizabeth said, frowning, "or–"

"Yes, the lasagna. Reheat it until it's boiling."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Coming right up. One boiled lasagna."

"And _coffee_!" Rodney called after her.

His afternoon session was more of the same, and to be on the safe side Katie stocked up the clinic with bottled water. "It was on special at the general store, Doc," she said, putting several bottles in his office. Rodney examined one. It was labeled _Deep Cavern_ and had a picture of a spring fountaining up out of a meadow with a cheery, rustic farmer catching it in a glass.

Rodney scowled at the beaming fool on the label, remembering a disastrous farm excursion with the Fort McMurray Eager Beavers after which he'd been banned from further field trips. Totally unfair—it wasn't like his experiment with getting the other children to hold hands and grab the electric fence had harmed anyone permanently.

Kate Heightmeyer caught him between patients, calling from her talkback program. Rodney hesitated for a moment, but it was important to get the message out to the public. "Dr. McKay here."

"Hi there, Doc," Heightmeyer said breezily. "We've just been hearing from Bill Lee at the pool. He said you'd shut it down."

"There's a nasty stomach infection going around," Rodney explained. "I've ordered the pool water tested— it might be the source."

"But you can't be sure about that, can you? So isn't that premature?"

Rodney scowled. "It's a sensible precaution. Meanwhile, people experiencing symptoms such as diarrhea and vomiting should drink plenty of fluids and replenish their electrolytes. The drug store has packets of Oral Rehydration Solution."

"People might not be able to afford that, Doc," Heightmeyer said. "Can't they mix up the same thing at home?"

"Not if the main water supply's the culprit," Rodney said. "Most people aren't careful enough to make their own ORS, anyway. They'd have to use boiled water and add exactly the right amount of salt and sugar. Or it can be made with bottled water. I'll fax you the recipe."

"Hang on, Doc, are you saying now it's the main water supply that's the problem?" Heightmeyer sounded alarmed. "It doesn't sound as if you know _where_ it's coming from."

"No, it's too soon to tell," Rodney said impatiently. "We need the test results from samples Bill Lee's getting analyzed, from the main supply and the pool."

"You should be more careful, accusing the water supply without any evidence," Heightmeyer said. "A lot of peoples' incomes here depend on the tourist trade and you're causing unnecessary stress."

"I'm not _accusing_ the water supply. It's not a criminal in court," Rodney retorted. "And public health's more important than keeping a few tourists happy."

"And on that typically sensitive note, we'll open this topic up for calls," Heightmeyer said. "Oh, here's Peter Kavanagh again. Hello, Peter?"

"I'm concerned by Doc Mack's high-handed attitude, Kate. He's throwing baseless accusations around with no evidence to support them. Next, he'll be saying people are getting the bug from my dentist's clinic–"

Rodney slammed the handset down. Morons.

He saw another few patients, thankfully with minor complaints. Even thinking about the town's intestinal problems was making him queasy. Suddenly, his stomach cramped painfully and he dashed to the bathroom to throw up. Perfect: now he had it, too. After a miserable hour in and out of the bathroom, he closed the clinic and trudged upstairs to lie down.

His mobile rang. "Rodney?" It was John, and he didn't sound too happy. "I got the runs as well. I'm not gonna make it for chess 'n pizza tonight."

Rodney fought down a wave of nausea from the mention of pizza. "Me, too," he said. "And don't talk about food."

John chuckled weakly. "Yeah, sorry. You okay?"

"Not particularly, but it'll pass," Rodney said, sitting up and drinking some more bottled water. "But we both got sick after lunching at the Puddlejumper. It's possible Elizabeth's hygiene practices aren't up to scratch."

"Jeez, Rodney, don't go saying that. People are pissed enough with you already."

"All this fuss about a few tourists–" Rodney began.

"You don't know the local history," John cut in. "Water contamination scares can shut down whole towns around here. It happened before and a lot of people lost their jobs."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have a responsibility for the health of this community," Rodney said stiffly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Katie had the bug as well the next day, but she still turned up, looking pale. There were more patients with gastrointestinal problems and more calls for advice. Rodney struggled on, but he was still nauseated himself, needing the bathroom intermittently. He made up more ORS for himself and Katie with the bottled water, and eventually in mid-afternoon the lab called with results from the first patients' samples. It was campylobacter, as he'd suspected.

Bill Lee answered on the first ring. "Well?" Rodney demanded. "Do you have the results?"

"They just came in," Lee said hurriedly. "All clear, of course. I knew it wasn't the pool. The main water supply's fine as well."

"Well, that doesn't make any sense," Rodney grumbled.

"I suppose it's too much to expect an apology?" Lee sounded smug.

"Oh, go exterminate some orcs," Rodney snapped, hanging up on him. He bit his lip, thinking. The cases were far too widespread for there not to be a common cause, and if it wasn't in the water, infected poultry was the most likely source.

"I'm going to the butcher's," he told Katie. "It may be in the local chickens."

"But I'm a vegetarian!" she said, gazing up at him mournfully.

"You probably haven't been washing your hands adequately," Rodney told her. Katie burst into tears. Rodney frowned at her, unsure what to do. "Most people don't handwash properly," he reassured her. "Use soap and count to at least twenty." When that failed to cheer her he gave up and backed away. "Close up early," he called from the front entrance. "Put a notice on the door. I'm on my phone for emergencies."

He called in at the station to check on John, who was lying on one of the beds out the back looking pitiful. The shaggy gray dog was sacked out on the other bed. "It's campylobacter," Rodney told John, frowning at the dog. He took John's pulse which was reassuringly normal. "Are you drinking enough?"

"Yeah. We gonna need antibiotics?" John asked, opening an eye.

"It should be sufficient to keep your fluids up. Coffee's a good option—it'll kill anything."

John made a face. "Water's better if you're thirsty." He slid his hand into Rodney's and squeezed, and Rodney felt an odd warmth well up behind his sternum.

"I was on my way to the butcher's. It's probably from infected poultry," Rodney said, not that he wanted to let go of John's hand.

"Christ, Rodney. Haven't you heard what they're saying on the radio?" John reached over and switched on a clock-radio by the bed. Heightmeyer's voice emerged.

"So it wasn't the municipal water supply or the pool," she was saying. "As Bill Lee confirmed when he called in earlier."

"It was irresponsible of Doc Mack to spread malicious rumors like that," said a voice Rodney recognized.

Rodney groaned. "Oh great, Cowen, my number one fan."

John switched off the radio. "Yeah, him and Kavanagh have been bad-mouthing you, and they're not the only ones. So don't go charging around accusing all the livestock farmers hereabouts without proof. Not unless you want to have them coming after you with carving knives and court orders."

"It's the most likely source," Rodney muttered mulishly, but John was pulling him down onto the bed and curling around him, and he was really very tired.

John slung an arm over his waist and pulled him closer, nuzzling his nose into the back of Rodney's neck.

"All right, just a short nap," Rodney muttered, toeing off his shoes. "To recuperate."

On the adjoining bed, the shaggy dog twitched in his sleep and snored.

* * *

Rodney ushered Woolsey, the guy from the Licensing Board, into his office. He was feeling a lot better, having decided that although antibiotics weren't usually needed to treat campylobacter infections, it was preferable for the town's doctor and police chief not to be laid low for over a week. He'd also been kept busy driving around treating the few severe cases—children and older people—who'd needed erythromycin. Katie was on a course too so that she could keep the chaos in the waiting room down to manageable levels.

Katie brought in two mugs of coffee on a tray with a bowl of sugar, a cream jug, and a plate of iced cookies. He glared at her and she shrugged, set it on his desk and slipped out, closing the door.

"What's this all about?" he asked, grabbing a coffee and leaving Woolsey to fend for himself. He didn't have time to waste on some pencil-pusher.

Woolsey sat and opened a briefcase, taking out a manila folder and resting it on his lap. He leaned forward and added cream and two spoons of sugar to the remaining coffee mug on the tray, stirred it precisely, then sipped from it, before meeting Rodney's increasingly impatient gaze. "Well, Dr. McKay, I'm afraid there's been a complaint." He pursed his lips. "Several complaints, actually."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, let me guess. They're incensed because I won't prescribe antibiotics for trivial viral infections, or for most people in this current campylobacter outbreak.

Woolsey set his coffee mug down like it was radioactive, looking alarmed. "Campylobacter outbreak?"

Rodney grinned meanly and offered him the plate. "Yeah. Cookie?"

Woolsey sat back, looking nervous. "Ah, no, I think not."

"What are these so-called complaints, then?"

Woolsey cleared his throat. "Dr. McKay, in primary care medicine, certain… interpersonal skills are required. It's not like a surgical career, and not everyone's suited to it. All the complaints we've received focus on your abrasive manner. With patients."

"I'm not going to sugar-coat the reality of a diagnosis, or pander to their demands for inappropriate treatments," Rodney said, leaning forward with his hands flat on the desk. "My predecessor was, well, quite frankly I think he was senile, and a lot of my patients were on entirely the wrong medications." He sat back. "I practice evidence-based medicine, not voodoo."

"Yes, and that's all well and good," Woolsey persisted, "but some… tact is needed. You're described as insensitive and lacking empathy."

"Empathy's not going to manage their asthma or their hypertension," Rodney retorted. "Would they rather be correctly diagnosed and treated, or have some moron pandering to them right up until they die of undiagnosed appendicitis?" He glared across the desk. "Anyway, who's made these complaints?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, at this stage," Woolsey said, frowning. "If the matter comes to a hearing you'll be provided with all the details, but–"

"I bet it's Cowen, isn't it? And Kavanagh." Rodney leaned forward and stabbed a finger at Woolsey, who'd given himself away by his reaction. "Ha! Thought so!"

"I can't divulge–"

"Oh, spare me," Rodney said, leaning back in his chair with an angry exhalation. "Cowen's a menace, and Kavanagh's had it in for me ever since I told him not to prescribe medication that had nothing to do with his—extremely minor—role as the local dentist. I should be reporting _him_!"

"Be that as it may," Woolsey said fussily, "I'm not confirming or denying the source of these complaints. But there are also concerns about your blood phobia." Woolsey held up a hand to stop Rodney's angry interjection. "Yes, I know you've declared that to the Board, but the issue is whether it's impairing your ability to provide appropriate care."

"There's no evidence that my… my small issue with…" Rodney waved a dismissive hand, "that it in any way prevents me from–"

Woolsey cut in. "The point is, Dr. McKay, it's now unclear if you should retain your license. This is a preliminary investigation, and I'll shortly be interviewing a sample of your patients as the next–"

"A highly _biased_ sample, I'm sure," Rodney snarled, indicating the folder Woolsey was putting back into his briefcase, snapping the fastenings closed.

Woolsey stood, holding the briefcase in front of him like a shield. "I can assure you my investigation will be conducted according to the letter of–"

"Get out," Rodney snapped. "I have actual work to do."

He told John about it over lunch, with suitable gestures and embellishments.

"Sounds like a dick," John said, forking up some spaghetti bolognese. He was looking a lot better as well but they were both still eating cooked food to be on the safe side.

"Well, precisely!" Rodney agreed, through a mouthful of Elizabeth's homemade mac 'n cheese. On balance he preferred the sort in packets, but this wasn't bad even if it was insufficiently orange. "And he's going to interview people as well. Talk about an invasion of privacy!"

John pulled a face. "Kavanagh?"

Rodney sighed and set his fork down. "Yes, of course, and that bastard Cowen as well."

"Hey, buddy, cheer up," John said, waggling his eyebrows. "There are loads of people you've helped y'know. Ford's doing better."

Rodney snorted. "Oh yes, let's send Woolsey up to talk to the man with hallucinations of his deceased C.O. and a bunch of imaginary aliens!"

John winced. "Might make him see what you're up against, but yeah, point taken."

They agreed to meet later at Rodney's for take-out and their long-postponed chess game, and, once outside, John clapped him on the shoulder and said that a kinder, gentler Rodney McKay was kinda terrifying, and he should just be himself. All very well for him, with his easy charm.

Rodney got through the rest of the day, trying not to fret too much about whether he was being appropriately direct with patients about their drinking or their addiction to donuts, or whether he was being _insensitive_. What did empathy even look like? He empathized with his patients' abused livers and overloaded metabolisms just fine.

It was hard not to worry. And hard not to brood angrily about Cowen having the nerve to make a complaint, after that cruel joke with the ketchup. No wonder Woolsey had mentioned his blood phobia. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer, gathering up his bag and telling Katie to close the clinic early as he had a home visit.

Cowen's farm overlooked the sea, a cluster of ramshackle buildings with a few cattle in nearby fields, chickens scratching in the dirt. It looked shabby and disorganized, with a discarded fridge and a couple of rusting trucks half-covered in long grass.

There was no reply when he knocked on the door and called out, hammering until his knuckles ached. He walked around the house but the back door was locked as well. The barn-like garage wasn't locked, and Cowen's van was parked in there, a stack of sealed cardboard boxes beside it. He circled it, finding a work area at the back with a bench and an industrial-sized sink with water piped in through a length of black plastic hose. Several empty plastic bottles sat on the bench beside the sink, their blue and green labels familiar. _Deep Cavern_ , with the beaming Amish farmer and the sparkling spring. A bottle was in the sink, half-filled.

"Oh, you fucking bastard," Rodney muttered, going back to the boxes beside the van and ripping one open. A dozen more bottles, filled and ready for sale. Rodney felt an echo of the last few days of nausea. They'd been drinking this stuff to _avoid_ the infection. He'd recommended it, had even had it there in the clinic for his patients. He stood abruptly, staring at the black plastic hose snaking out through a hole in the barn's wall, then turned and made his way outside.

In the yard, he pulled out his phone, calling John. "I'm at Cowen's place."

"Goddamnit Rodney, I told you not to do anything dumb. Hassling him won't stop him talking to that Woolsey guy."

"That's not what I– look, just get your ass out here asap. He's not here right now but plenty of evidence _is_."

"Evidence? What are y–"

"He's the one bottling that water, _Deep Cavern_ , that we've all been drinking," Rodney said urgently. "I'm sure it's the source of the infection."

"Yeah, like you were sure about the pool, and the main water supply, and the chickens–"

Rodney brushed that aside. "This time I'm right! I can feel it, and I bet I know where he is."

He thumbed off the phone, silencing Sheppard's protests, and headed around to the back of the barn. The black plastic hose must have been a late addition—it hadn't been buried or plumbed in properly and ran up the hill through the long grass, sometimes obscured by weeds or bracken. Rodney trudged slowly after it, cursing the slope's steepness.

It took him fifteen minutes to find Cowen where the hose began at a standpipe. He was bent over with his back turned, doing something with a wrench. Presumably, it was a spring he'd tapped, run-off from the catchment area above.

Rodney crossed his arms and lifted his chin. "You do realize you're the cause of everyone's diarrhea and vomiting?"

Cowen whirled, looking furious. "You again, Doc, making your usual wild accusations. This is pure spring water, perfectly safe."

" _Deep Cavern_ ," Rodney sneered. "I don't think so. This isn't limestone country, and your spring there," he gestured with his chin, "is just run-off from those paddocks up there."

"So what if it is?" Cowen said belligerently. "It's still a natural source without all the chemicals Lee puts in our tap water. Fluoride can kill you."

"Anything can kill you in sufficient quantities, you moron," Rodney snapped. "Fluoride just stops your teeth rotting. And those chemicals Bill Lee adds stop everyone from getting goddamn campylobacter and a slew of other infections."

"There's nothing wrong with th–"

Rodney gestured angrily at the fields above them where brown and white cattle grazed peacefully. "The cows shit, rain washes it down to contaminate the groundwater, and it comes out here, in your untreated run-off. Which you've been selling to everyone, making them ill."

"You can't say things like that!" Cowen took a step toward Rodney, enraged. "You've been a pain in my ass, McKay, ever since you got here. You think I make enough to live on just from repair work and the moving van? I need this business to stay afloat, and you're not going to fuck it up!"

He lifted the wrench and strode down the hill. Rodney took a step back, tripped on a clump of weeds and fell, then scrambled up. Cowen was almost on him. He turned and ran, hearing Cowen's threats behind him as he thudded down the slope not far behind. Rodney slipped and stumbled, cursing his Italian leather shoes—Cowen had sensible boots and was gaining on him.

He crested a rise and saw John running full tilt up the hill, the gray dog bounding behind, fur flying. "Rodney, what?" John called, then he must have seen Cowen and the wrench. "Cowen, put that fucking thing down _right now_!"

Rodney glanced back to see Cowen just behind him, tripped on a hummock and fell, rolling downhill several yards.

"Police! Stop or I'll fire!" John shouted. A moment later a shot rang out. "Stop right there or the next one's in your fucking kneecap!" John's voice was full of menace, his gun trained on Cowen in a two-handed grip. Above them on the slope, Cowen flung the wrench into the dirt and stood bent over and panting, hands on his knees.

"Stay low," John said to Rodney as he ran past, then he had Cowen down, face-first in the grass, and was cuffing him.

The shaggy dog licked Rodney's face. "Ack, gerrof!" Rodney spluttered, flailing.

* * *

It was getting dark before the paperwork was done and Cowen locked away in a cell at the station. Lorne was on shift there with the dog for company, and John had picked up burgers and fries on his way to Rodney's.

Annoyingly, John won two out of three of their chess games. "But only as I've had a very stressful day," Rodney protested, "so it's hardly a fair test."

"Yeah, sure, Rodney," John said, grinning. "Wanna play some more?"

"Not that kind of game," Rodney said without thinking, and oh crap, he really must be tired for that to have gotten past his defenses.

John's grin widened. "Why, Rodney. I thought you'd never ask."

"I, um, I wasn't really," Rodney stammered, blushing furiously. "It was a slip of the tongue."

"Yeah?" John was standing beside him now, pulling him up and into his arms. "Well, I reckon we can put that tongue of yours to better use."

"Oh, I, mmmph!" Rodney said, and then he stopped talking.

John's lips were as warm as he'd remembered, and just as demanding. He was skilled with his own tongue, and soon they were panting, John's thigh between his legs and John's hands on his ass, pulling them closer.

"Rumor has it you've got a bed here somewhere," John murmured, his voice rough.

"Oh, I… yes, yes I do," Rodney said unhelpfully, nosing John's neck, his hands exploring John's smooth back under his shirt as his muscles flexed and tightened.

John chuckled. "C'mon, let's find it before you drop too many more IQ points."

"I haven't changed the sheets," Rodney admitted once they reached the bedroom. "Events kind of… got away on me." He found he was wringing his hands. "Um, are you sure about this?" He hunched into himself a little, folding his arms. "I'm not exactly Mr. Popular around here, and I doubt the local fishermen are big on gay rights."

"Hey, hey," John said, pulling him into a hug. He drew back and tilted Rodney's face up to meet his eyes. "I left that DADT crap behind long ago. I don't give a shit what people think their police chief should or shouldn't do."

"Or their doctor. I mean, I don't give a shit either," Rodney said earnestly.

"That's the spirit," John said. "Now, about that bed." He waggled his eyebrows. "The sheets look okay to me, so what say we dirty it up some more?" He lay back and pulled Rodney down to straddle him.

"An excellent idea," Rodney said breathlessly. He leaned in to kiss John, and then John rolled them both, pulling Rodney's shirt up to lick his nipples. "I… oh god," Rodney whimpered, arching into the touch and trying ineffectually to undo John's pants. "Clothes off," he ordered. " _Now_!"

John sat back on his heels and stripped off his t-shirt with a sinuous body twist, then stood, toeing off his boots and socks and finally shucking his pants and boxers. He turned back to the bed. "You too, Rodney," he said, pouting.

Rodney stared up at John with his mouth open, then blinked. "Um, yes of course," he said nervously, swinging his legs around to sit on the side of the bed and unbutton his shirt. "But I have to warn you that I'm, uh, a little out of shape." He waved at the wall switch. "Maybe turn the lights off?"

John pulled him up and drew him into another hug. "Hey, it's okay, no need to be nervous," he said into Rodney's neck. "It's been a while for both of us, y'know?"

"I very much doubt that it's been as long for you," Rodney said miserably. "I mean, look at you!"

"Yeah, well, it's makin' me kinda self-conscious being the only one naked here," John said, "so get your gear off and I'll fix the lights. Back in a sec."

He left the room, flipping off the light switch as he passed and leaving the door open. Rodney felt safer in the semi-darkness, quickly divesting himself of the rest of his clothes and getting in under the covers. He sniffed them: they weren't too bad. He'd changed them just a couple of days ago.

John returned, carrying a lit candle in a saucer. He put it on the nightstand. "Atmosphere," he announced.

Rodney snorted, but he couldn't take his eyes off John as he knelt on the bed, outlined by the flickering golden light like something out of legend. "God, you're beautiful," he said, reaching up to trail his fingers down John's chest and belly. John dropped his head back and shuddered, his half-hard cock filling, then he drew back the covers and smiled down at Rodney as though _he_ was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

He positioned himself over Rodney and moved down, nuzzling his belly. "Mmm," John said. "Comfy." He slid down further and eyed Rodney's now hard cock, then kissed the head gently. "Raincheck," he told Rodney's cock. "Let's keep it simple tonight."

"Yeah, okay," Rodney agreed, only a little disappointed, and that was mostly his neglected cock talking. He'd need some practice getting his blow job skills up to scratch again.

John moved up and they kissed some more and ground against each other. John guided Rodney's hand to his silky-hard cock and took Rodney's into his own and stroked it, whispering in his ear all the things he was going to do to him until Rodney came, crying out into the crook of John's neck.

When he came back to himself he realized John was rutting in the mess on his stomach kind of desperately, so he grabbed John's ass in both hands and helped him along until John made a high-pitched noise and shuddered, then went boneless. Rodney snagged his undershirt off the floor and cleaned them both off, blew out the candle, and pulled John into his arms.

"See," John said sleepily. "Told you it'd be alright."

"You did no such thing," Rodney said fondly, "but yes, it was very nice indeed."

"Round two in the mornin'," John muttered, sliding into sleep. Rodney held him for a while just because he could, then manhandled John around so he could be the big spoon, and joined him.

* * *

"Emergency at the school, Doc!" Katie had braved Rodney's wrath to interrupt his examination of Caldwell's hernia. Caldwell glared at Katie, hurriedly pulling up his pants. She ignored him. "Teyla called—Jinto Halling had a bad fall."

"This'd better not be another stupid dare gone wrong," Rodney growled, grabbing his bag.

"But my hernia!" spluttered Caldwell behind him, outraged.

"Make another appointment," Rodney snapped, striding out the door.

It had been too good to be true. No disasters for a whole week and Cowen had been charged, released on bail, and had promptly left town, so good riddance. Woolsey was still "making inquiries", but Rodney tried not to think about that. Seeing John every night made ignoring Woolsey easy, everything else irrelevant when John was spread out in bed for Rodney's delectation, or when John's tongue curled around the head of Rodney's cock. He shook off the sense-memory and broke into a run, trying to clear his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," Teyla said, kneeling beside Jinto on the padded mats under the climbing bars. "Jinto and Wex were briefly unsupervised and they must have encouraged each other. Jinto was trying to walk on the top bar, Wex said, but he fell. We think he may have hit his head."

"How long was he unconscious?" Rodney asked, listening to Jinto's chest and checking his pulse. Jinto was blinking up at the sky, a little dazed, and Rodney used his flashlight to check Jinto's pupils, making the boy wince away.

"Only a couple of minutes, I think," Teyla said.

Rodney palpated Jinto's skull, searching for a bruise but not finding anything obvious. His arms and legs seemed uninjured as well. "Squeeze my hand," he told Jinto, testing the grip on each side. He pulled the boy's shoes off. "Wriggle your toes. Yes, on both feet, and lift this leg. Good, now the other one. Do you have a headache? Hurt anywhere else? Feeling sick?" Jinto blinked at him and shook his head.

There was a commotion, and a tall man with long hair pushed through the crowd of teachers and children and rushed over, dropping to his knees on the mats. "Jinto!" He stroked the boy's hair, then turned to Teyla. "What happened?"

Her face creased with concern. "Jinto was playing with Wex and he fell. I'm so sorry."

Rodney rocked back on his heels. "I'm Dr. McKay. He's been lucky, I think. No signs of concussion but he should have a skull X-ray. He'll need to go to an ER." He turned to Teyla. "Did you call an ambulance yet?"

"No, no need for that," Halling said, his hand on Jinto's brow. "The Ancestors will provide."

Rodney frowned. "Generous as the 'Ancestors' may be, I doubt they have X-ray vision like Superman. The boy needs further investigations."

Halling dismissed this. "I will take him home and we will pray. No more is needed." He scooped Jinto up and stood.

"This is very much against medical advice," Rodney said worriedly. "Keep a close eye on him overnight and call me if anything changes."

"It is in Their Hands," Halling said, imperturbable, and strode off carrying his son.

"Who does he think he is?" Rodney asked Teyla.

"Reverend Halling is the pastor of the Pegasus Harbor Ancestral Church," she said. "He is very devout."

"He's a religious maniac," Rodney retorted angrily. He bit his lip. "Do you think he _will_ call, if it's needed?"

Teyla looked troubled. "He loves Jinto very much," she said, which wasn't an answer.

Rodney fretted about the boy off and on during his afternoon clinic but seeing John again after work briefly distracted him. For a change, John was cooking, a grilled snapper from the harbor, and making mashed potatoes while Rodney put together a salad. They ate at the kitchen table, John telling tales of tourist outrage after another naked beachcombing stunt by Hermiod. The shaggy gray dog, Buddy, lay under the table working on a chew toy after chomping his way through a bowl of kibble.

"I met another local character, but maybe not so harmless," Rodney said. John raised an eyebrow. "Halling, that annoying preacher."

"He is kind of intense," John said. "What happened?"

Rodney explained, adding a side-commentary on the ability of religion to turn potentially sensible people into irrational fools, which turned into a diatribe about Galileo being forced to recant his heliocentric research by the Inquisition.

John nodded. "He muttered something after, didn't he? About the Earth still moving around the sun no matter what they'd forced him to say."

"Yes, _Eppur si muove_ , but of course that was never in the trial records," Rodney said. "Just as well. If they'd heard him say it the bastards would've put him to death. They'd already burned Giordano Bruno at the stake. I hate fanatics."

Rodney's phone rang and under the table, Buddy barked sharply. "Damn," Rodney said, patting his pockets until he located it. "Hope this isn't anything; I was planning on dessert."

"Mmm, _dessert_ " John said, grinning and eyeing Rodney through his lashes.

"Yeah, hold that thought," Rodney said, a little breathless, and took the call.

 _"I am sorry to trouble you, Dr. McKay,"_ Teyla said in his ear, " _but I am worried about Jinto."_

"Wait, hang on a sec," Rodney said, switching the phone over and putting it on the table so John could hear as well.

Teyla's voice came tinnily from the speaker. " _It may be nothing at all, but I was concerned, so I visited Jinto and Halling just now."_

"Is he worse?" Rodney asked. "What's happened?"

 _"There may be nothing wrong at all_ ," Teyla said, " _but there was no answer when I knocked and called."_

John leaned in. "Were there lights on inside, Teyla? Any sign of Halling's car?"

 _"A faint light upstairs, and his car was there, yes."_ Teyla paused. " _Perhaps Halling was merely busy elsewhere in the house, but I tried to get his attention for some time."_

"I don't like it," Rodney said. "The kid should really have been admitted, or at least had X-rays."

"Okay, we're coming over," John said, getting up. "Hang on, Teyla. We'll be there soon."

 _"Thank you, John,_ " Teyla said. " _I hope I am merely being over-cautious but I would be relieved to know all is well._ "

Rodney grabbed Jinto's records and his bag, and John started the SUV. Buddy, of course, wanted to come but John locked him inside—who knew how long this would take them.

Halling's house was on the outskirts of town but it only took ten minutes to get there. Teyla was still calling and knocking, but it was as she'd described—a faint upstairs light, and no answer.

"Enough of this," John said, after finding the back door locked as well. "I'm entering under exigent circumstances to protect or preserve life." He grabbed a rock from the garden and smashed a glass pane in the door, reaching around to unlock it, then pushing it open. "Watch your feet," he said, and led the way in, kicking aside the broken glass with his boots.

"Up here," Rodney said, making for the dimly lit stairs. "It's where the kid's bedroom will be."

"Me first," John said, pulling him back. "We don't know what's happened."

Jinto's bedroom was at the back of the house, illuminated by a bedside lamp with glowing saint-like figures painted on the shade. In the soft light, Rodney could see the boy's face was beaded with sweat, and he was cool and clammy to the touch, his pulse thready.

"He's in shock," Rodney said. He couldn't get a blood pressure recording and Jinto was dazed, not able to tell them anything. His pupils were equal and reacted well to light, though. "It's not a head injury," Rodney muttered. "Not an epidural hematoma, so what…" He looked up at Teyla. "How exactly did he fall?"

"I did not see it," Teyla said uncertainly, "but I think Wex said he struck the bar on his way down."

"Yeah, but not with his head," Rodney said. "It's abdominal trauma." He shook his head angrily. "Halling took him away before I could check his stomach." He looked up at John. "He's bleeding internally. Call the Air Ambulance." John nodded and stepped out into the hallway to make the call.

He lifted Jinto's pajama top and palpated his abdomen. Jinto winced when Rodney pressed the left upper quadrant. A ruptured spleen, then. He attached a bag of IV fluid to the headboard with a coat hanger and applied a tourniquet but Jinto's veins were nonexistent, no matter how hard he tried to find them. Hypovolemic shock. Crap, that meant a cut-down to find a vein. He swallowed back a wave of nausea.

John returned, looking grim. "The Air Ambulance got called out to Orr's Island; they can't get here. The road ambulance'll be here soon."

"What can I do?" Teyla asked.

"Find his father," Rodney said grimly and she nodded and ducked out.

"He won't make it by road," Rodney said, fighting panic as he pulled equipment out of his bag and gloved up. "He'll bleed out." He looked up at John. "I need your help. I have to make an incision to find a vein."

"Christ, Rodney," John said. "Can you, I mean…?"

"Get me a waste bin, a bag, anything I can throw up in."

Rodney swabbed Jinto's arm and took a deep breath, then lifted his scalpel and made the incision. Blood welled and he pressed firmly with a cotton pad, turning his head aside and retching helplessly over the bin John was holding, the smell of blood thick in his nostrils. As soon as the nausea subsided a little he explored the vasculature. This was what he knew as a specialized surgeon, the ins and outs of how blood moved through the body, the structure of the venous and arterial systems. He found a vein despite being on the verge of vomiting any moment and inserted the cannula as easily as breathing, a simple task compared to looking through surgical loupes or making microstiches in arteries. He hooked the cannula to the IV and thumbed the line open, taping the cannula in then binding the wound closed with bandages. It'd need stitching, but that could wait.

Rodney sat back and wiped his sweaty forehead. He gestured at the IV bag. "Lift that higher and squeeze it. Steady pressure." John did as instructed and Rodney checked Jinto's pulse again. It was faint and too rapid, and he still couldn't get a blood pressure on the other arm. He shoved some cushions under the boy's feet, raising his legs.

"I have found Halling," Teyla said, from the doorway. "He was… at prayer." She looked upset. "One of the bedrooms has been converted into a chapel. He said the prayers for the dying had to be completed, but he is coming shortly."

"I'll get him," John said curtly, gesturing at the IV bag. "Teyla, if you can take this–"

"No," Rodney said. "The last thing we need in here is a deluded zealot chanting incantations."

"He is Jinto's father," Teyla said unhappily. "He is misguided, but he believes his way is correct."

"Whatever," Rodney snapped. "Someone needs to wait on the road, to look out for the ambulance."

"I will do that," Teyla said, vanishing into the dark hallway.

After a couple of minutes, Halling appeared and stood silently in the doorway. "You should have called me," Rodney said angrily.

"Or answered the goddamn door," John added, giving Halling a hard stare.

"The Ancestors will save him," Halling said quietly. "And if not, I have done what is necessary for his spirit."

Rodney shook his head, lips compressed in a bitter line. He turned away, trying not to see the pain in Halling's eyes.

It was the same two EMTs with the ambulance, Stackhouse and Teldy. Rodney and John got into the back with Jinto, John still holding the bag of fluid up until Teldy took it and attached it inside the vehicle, while Stackhouse got in the front to drive.

"I'll follow you—I will drive Halling there," Teyla called up to them. John lifted a hand and Teldy pulled the back doors shut, the ambulance setting off immediately.

Rodney had no attention for anyone except Jinto. It was a quandary—the more he pushed the fluids, the faster they'd leak out into the kid's abdomen through the tear in his splenic artery. "How long by road?" he asked John, sitting beside him on the adjoining stretcher while Teldy adjusted an oxygen mask on the boy's face. Above Jinto's bed, a rapid heart rate fluttered on the monitor from the pulse-ox on his finger. His blood pressure was worryingly low.

Teldy answered. "Twenty-five minutes to Lincoln Health at Damariscotta—that's closest. Lot further to Brunswick, the way these harbors cut inland before there's a bridge or causeway to turn south."

"He hasn't _got_ twenty-five minutes," Rodney said. As though in confirmation, the monitor flatlined as an alarm tone sounded.

"Shit, he's crashed," Teldy said, starting chest compressions. "He's still breathing, just, but there's no pulse."

"He won't restart unless we stop the internal bleeding," Rodney snapped, ripping open another cut-down set. There was a cheap plastic artery forceps in the set, not much more use than a clothespin. "Tell me you have a better hemostat than this," he demanded. "A Spencer Wells forceps?"

Teldy glanced at it between compressions. "Nope, that's all we got. Cutbacks."

" _Fuck_!" Rodney snapped his fingers. "Shears, now!" Teldy gestured with her chin, continuing the effort to get breath and blood moving in Jinto's body, and John found them.

"Cut his jacket off and pull the pants down." The boy's body, exposed, was pale and slender in the fluorescent lights.

"Rodney, what?" John said nervously as Rodney pulled on fresh gloves and swabbed Jinto's left flank with disinfectant. Profoundly unsterile, but infection was the least of the kid's worries. He smeared more disinfectant on his gloves.

"I have to operate, to clamp the splenic artery, or he won't retain the fluids and his heart won't restart," Rodney said through gritted teeth. "Get a–"

"Yeah, a bucket or a bag… okay, this'll do." He had an aluminum container, empty now of supplies. "But can you?"

"I _have_ to," Rodney said, but he stopped to take a deep breath, then another, as terror and nausea washed through him. "I may vomit," he warned Teldy. "Blood phobia."

She turned to stare at him, almost losing her rhythm. "That wasn't just a rumor?"

John's hand was warm on his back. "You can do it, buddy, I know you can."

Rodney took a deep breath, then made the incision. It was a lot deeper and longer than the cut-down on the kid's forearm and pressurized blood trapped in his abdomen from the ruptured spleen sprayed out through the wound, all over Rodney's shirt. He turned to retch pitifully over John's outstretched container but there was no time, _no goddamn time_ , so he pushed the cloying smell of blood away _hard_ and got his fingers into the wound, feeling for the tear he knew must be there.

"Stop compressions. Hold still," he snapped, and Teldy paused, watching him warily.

Rodney closed his eyes. Vision was no use to him now with his hand in the operating field but the standard anatomy was clear as a hologram in his mind's eye. He hoped the kid didn't have any major variations. The splenic artery should be…there! He squeezed the damaged vessel above the tear between his first two fingers, cursing the useless plastic artery forceps. He'd have to stay like this all the way to the hospital.

"Restart compressions, _carefully_ ," he said, and Teldy got to work again, with Rodney's hand in the wound like the little Dutch boy's finger in the dike.

Keeping his eyes averted from Jinto's blood-spattered body, Rodney said, "John, I need you to squeeze that bag of fluid again. Hard as you can, this time. Twist it all out."

"You got it." John pressed hard with both hands.

For a while there was only the rumble of the engine, the hiss of the road, and Teldy's soft grunts as she continued compressions. When the IV fluid bag got low, Rodney had John switch places and do the compressions while Teldy changed the bag for a fresh one.

"Epinephrine now," he said, as soon as there was a chance the kid had a better blood volume, and Teldy administered it into the IV port. "And get Stackhouse to radio ahead," Rodney told her, biting off the words. "Tell them to have a _functioning_ hemostat waiting when we get there."

Teldy picked up the chest compressions from John again and they watched the flat green line of the monitor, stretching on seemingly to infinity. But then there was a blip, and after a pause, another, and Rodney blew out a shaky breath and sagged against John, careful not to let his hand slip, as Jinto's heart restarted.

* * *

The hospital had a Spencer Wells waiting and Rodney clamped it onto the artery, then Jinto was whisked off to the operating room. Because the universe hated him, the surgeon waiting at the ER had been Michael Kenmore, but Rodney had trained him so he should be able to manage a splenectomy, for fuck's sake.

"Nice save, Doc," Teldy said, clapping him on the shoulder before going to help Stackhouse clean up the ambulance.

The staff found Rodney a scrubs top and he dumped his ruined shirt in a biohazard bin, washed up, and joined John, Teyla, and Halling in the waiting room while Jinto underwent an emergency splenectomy.

"Kinda got the feeling you didn't much like that Kenmore dude," John said when they were getting fresh cups of execrable coffee from the machine, glancing back at Halling and Teyla.

"An ex-trainee of mine. He's a competent surgeon, but he's an ass." Rodney sighed. "He was the one who told Cowen and the rest about my blood phobia so they played that stupid prank with the ketchup."

John turned to stare at the double doors to the operating suite, his eyes narrowed.

He wasn't any better disposed when Kenmore breezed in to tell Halling it had all gone well, and Jinto would live and would manage just fine without a spleen. Halling wept openly, thanking the 'Ancestors' and clasping Kenmore's hand. "You would do better to thank Dr. McKay," Teyla told him coolly.

Kenmore turned to Rodney, looking down his nose. "Yes, good work there, McKay. Remarkable, really, with your… problem." He smirked. "But I guess you remembered the basics, even so."

John grabbed Kenmore's scrubs top and leaned in, nose to nose. "Rodney McKay's ten times the doctor you'll ever be, _pal_ , and don't you forget it."

"John," Rodney muttered, flushing. "He's not worth it."

"You got _that_ right," John said, as Kenmore beat a hasty retreat.

"That was well done, John," Teyla said warmly. Halling just looked puzzled.

Halling was staying with Jinto so Teyla led John and Rodney, who now felt weirdly drained, out to the car. "I will bring Halling a change of clothes tomorrow," Teyla said, smiling in approval as John slid in beside Rodney in the back seat, pulling Rodney's head down onto his shoulder. Rodney was asleep before they hit the highway.

He stumbled through the change of cars and the drive home, the delighted welcome by Buddy and John helping him up the stairs.

Draped over John in bed, Rodney yawned hugely. "I'm not really up to…you know," he admitted sheepishly.

"Just get some sleep," John said, kissing the top of his head. "And, Rodney?"

Rodney opened one eye, too tired to do anything even when Buddy jumped onto the foot of the bed to curl up there. "Yeah?"

"You did good."

* * *

"Hey, Doc, catch this," Katie said during a lull in his afternoon clinic the next day. She turned up the volume on her radio.

"That all sounds very heroic," Heightmeyer was saying brightly.

"Better believe it," John's voice drawled from the speaker. "The Doc was amazing, Kate. He literally held the kid together all the way to the hospital. And, Kate?"

"Yes, Chief Sheppard?"

"I hope this puts paid to those rumors that the Doc isn't up to it. We're damn lucky to have him here."

Heightmeyer said something blandly positive and then changed the topic, switching to a new caller.

Katie turned the dial back to sax music, beaming up at him. "It's all over town," she said happily.

"Haven't you got plants to water?" Rodney asked gruffly. His eyes were stinging for some reason. Probably allergies.

"No, but Ladon's coming in soon to fix the fax machine. He's set up an IT business as well as doing the handyman stuff, now Cowen's gone."

"Just make sure he doesn't upload any nonsense to the computer," Rodney instructed, and went to hide in his office.

His phone rang. "Hey, big brother," Jeannie said. "Your popularity rating's through the roof, I hear."

"Yes, yes, world-famous in Pegasus Harbor," Rodney said, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, if a sheep farts it's big news around here."

"Only if they fart the Star-Spangled Banner," Jeannie said, a grin in her voice. "Enjoy it while you can, Mer. You deserve it."

"Hmph," Rodney said, trying not to smile. "How are Kaleb and the rug rat?"

"We're all fine. Oh hey—you should come to dinner again on Sunday. I was thinking I'd invite Jen Keller over. I was in Boston with her, before…" There was an uncomfortable pause as they both remembered the screaming row they'd had when Jeannie dropped out of med school to marry Kaleb. "Anyway," Jeannie hurried on, "Jen's filling in for someone on maternity leave in Brunswick which isn't all that far to drive, so I thought–"

"Are you matchmaking?" Rodney asked, incredulous and annoyed.

"Well, _someone's_ got to, Mer! Left to your own devices you'll never–"

"Yes, absolutely! Leave me to my own fucking devices! And if you invite this Keller woman I definitely won't come."

"I don't want you to die alone and be eaten by cats!"

"I don't _have_ any cats!" Rodney slammed the handset down, breathing hard.

He was unsettled the rest of the afternoon, brooding about interfering sisters, and more particularly, whether he should ask John to Sunday lunch at Jeannie's. Maybe he could bring John as a friend? But Jeannie had always seen right through him and he didn't want to mess up the relationship with John by lying or pretending it was less than… Oh god, he and John were in a _relationship_! Did John know? Was John ready to be outed to Rodney's family as a) gay and b) with Rodney? Was _Rodney_ ready to be outed, come to that?

He went around and around with it until the last patient left and Katie had waved goodbye for the day. When John called to ask what take-out he should bring over, Rodney couldn't stand it anymore, even though he hated talking on the phone. "Anything, I don't care. Just… look, John. We need to talk."

There was a loaded pause. "Peachy," John drawled. "My favorite thing. I'll get the PJ's special and see you in a bit."

By the time John turned up an hour later, Rodney had worked himself up into something of a state.

"Jesus, calm down," John said. He looked tense and shuttered. "Are we eating first, or do we have to do this," he grimaced and made a vague circular gesture, " _talking_ thing right away?"

"I, I don't think I _could_ eat, at the moment," Rodney admitted.

John sighed, even his hair looking tired and dispirited. "Figured. Okay, let's at least siddown for Christ's sake." He nudged Rodney toward the kitchen where he turned one of the chairs around and straddled it, arms crossed on the back. It felt like he was putting a barrier between them, and Rodney's heart sank as he pulled up another chair.

He tried to decide where to start. With the relationship thing, or should he just ask John to dinner at Jeannie's and then work up to what he should tell her and Kaleb about the two of them?

After the silence had dragged on for too long, John rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, it's no big deal. I figured this'd happen sometime—just didn't expect it so soon. But I'm happy for you, really." He didn't look happy. "At least you didn't literally write me a 'dear John' note."

"I'm no good at this," Rodney said miserably. "My timing always sucks." He'd rushed it. John thought he was needy and desperate and was already backing off. How could he have been so dumb as to think they were at the 'meet the family' stage?

Then he frowned, and re-ran what John had just said. "Wait, you're… happy for me? You expected a 'dear John' note?" He squinted at John, puzzled. "What did _you_ think I wanted to talk about?"

John's face went carefully blank. "Going back to New York, of course. I knew eventually… I just hoped for a bit longer…" He shrugged. "It's okay. I know this is what you need to be doing, now the blood thing's all sorted out."

Rodney's jaw felt like it had hit his knees. "You think I'm rushing off to the city to be a fat cat surgeon again?"

"I didn't say that," John said, annoyed. "I know it's not about the money for you. You told me yourself: you're a surgical genius. Be pretty fucked up if I didn't want you to help all those people, to save lives. I mean, Pegasus Harbor can't compete with New York. No one expects you to waste your skills treating ingrown toenails when you could be doing open-heart surgery."

"Oh my god, you're an idiot," Rodney said in a rush of relief. He couldn't keep still, jumping up and pacing to and fro.

"Now you're just being rude," John said, scowling. He got up as well and turned toward the door. "I was trying to keep this civil."

"No, no, you don't understand," Rodney said urgently. "You've got it all ass-backward. I'm not going back to New York. What, you think I manage one minor surgery during which I was on the verge of barfing the whole time and I'm fixed?"

John was looking mulish, standing with his arms crossed. "Maybe not immediately, but you're back on the bike, right? Won't be long before you can handle it again, and then you'll be off. Better we cut our losses now."

"But I don't _want_ to," Rodney said, panic welling up. "I don't want to cut our losses and I'm not going back to New York and that wasn't what I wanted to talk about at all!"

"What, then?" John's face was still guarded.

Rodney took a deep breath. "Jeannie asked me to Sunday dinner and she was matchmaking—she wanted to set me up with some doctor friend of hers. A _female_ friend, I might add, some woman called Keller. And, and I don't want to be set up with anyone. Anyone else. I want to bring _you_ to dinner at Jeannie's, and I want to bring you as my," he made a violent thrashing gesture, "my _boyfriend_ , if you like, and I realized we're in a relationship, or at least I think we are, or, um, I want us to be?" He stared at John, wide-eyed. "Are we in a relationship?"

" _Jesus_ ," John said, one hand over his face. He kicked the chair around to sit at the table, head down on his folded arms. Rodney saw with dismay that his shoulders were heaving.

Rodney dropped to his knees beside John, pawing ineffectually at his shoulder. "Please don't, please don't cry. Oh fuck, John, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you."

John peeked sideways and Rodney suddenly realized the bastard wasn't crying, he was _laughing_. "Are you having hysterics?" Rodney asked, unsure whether to be worried or outraged. "Should I slap you or something?"

"Or something," John said, still snorting like a donkey. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and grabbed Rodney with the other, hauling him up to straddle his lap. "No slapping required."

"I don't know about _that_ ," Rodney said threateningly, although he was enjoying being in John's lap very much. He put his hands on John's shoulders. "After all that nonsense about me rushing off and abandoning you for my much-vaunted surgical career." He ran a hand through John's hair to get it to stand up and look perky again. John closed his eyes, smiling, and leaned into it.

"Yeah, I think we're in a relationship, Rodney," John said after a while. He opened one eye and grinned up at Rodney. "You gotta admit, we're both such fucking terrible communicators we're kinda made for each other."

"You're hilarious," Rodney said, trying for caustic but unable to keep a sappy grin off his own face. "And for your information, I am very far from being cured of my 'blood thing', and, to be honest, I'm not finding the idea of being a hotshot surgeon all that attractive anymore."

"Oh really?" John raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Rodney poked him in the chest. "Yes, really. You have no idea what a rat race it is at those levels. The workload was horrendous, the competition was cutthroat, and the vast majority of my colleagues were mind-numbingly dull. And don't even get me started on the joys of working with trainees like Kenmore." He shook his head. "Plus, the scope of the work was very narrow at that level of specialization. Here, anything can happen and frequently does. I've always enjoyed a diagnostic challenge, but in New York, other people had done all that already and I was just a technician, a mechanic."

"A very good mechanic," John said, smiling up at him. "A genius mechanic, so someone once told me."

"Look, if I miss it too badly and if I can overcome the blood phobia—and I'm not at all sure that I _can_ , you know, or that I could face all that therapy,"—they both shuddered—"I can explore working part-time at one of the local hospitals. If Kenmore can get a job there, I certainly can."

"Yeah, okay, you convinced me," John said, leaning up as Rodney leaned down. Their lips met in a tender, exploratory kiss. When they broke away John was dark-eyed and Rodney was breathing hard.

A thought occurred to him, through the pleasurable haze. "Damn, now we _will_ have to go to Jeannie's on Sunday and face the Inquisition."

John smirked. "It'll be okay—she's not so bad."

"Oh how little you know," Rodney said pityingly. "I could tell you stories… Oh, fuck no, she'll get out the baby photos of me as a cute blond cherub and tell you about my mullet phase and my real name!"

"Your real name, huh?" John was grinning broadly now.

Rodney made a disgusted face. "It's Meredith. Meredith Rodney McKay. I go by Rodney but Jeannie always calls me Mer." He poked John again. "No outing me to anyone else."

"Rodney," John said, a twinkle in his eye, "I hate to break it to you, buddy, but it's all over your medical degree and your doctorate, that you've got framed on the wall in your office."

"Oh," Rodney said sheepishly. He'd forgotten about those.

"Actually, I got a couple of confessions, myself," John said. "First off, Woolsey interviewed me this morning about the complaints, and, um, I told him you were booked for an interpersonal skills course to improve your, uh, bedside manner."

"What?" Rodney punched him in the arm.

John leaned away from the attack. "Calm down. I booked us both, actually, so you wouldn't have to do it alone, and after what just happened I figure that's no bad thing. Anyway, Woolsey seemed happy, and of course he'd heard about Jinto, so I don't think you need to worry about him anymore."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "At least we can sit in the back and act up." He narrowed his eyes at John. "What's your other confession?"

"It's linked with my big drama of the day—a rescue operation out by Highcliff Farm. Policing at its finest." He eased Rodney off his lap and stood. "Hang on, I gotta get something from the car to explain what I mean."

He came back carrying a cardboard box and set it on the kitchen table. "Open it."

Rodney gave him a puzzled look, then opened the flaps of the box and peered in. A bright-eyed black kitten looked up at him and mewed piteously. Rodney reached in and lifted the kitten out gently, cradling it.

"He was in a storm drain, took me ages to coax him out. I asked all around but he doesn't belong to anyone. Must have been abandoned."

"Were you left by yourself in a scary old drain?" Rodney cooed to the kitten, stroking it. He looked at John. "Did you say he's a male?"

John nodded. "I took him to Radek for a check-over. He's about four months old, Radek says, and he's basically fine, only a little malnourished so he can't have been there long. Radek fed him at the vet clinic—he's sure got an appetite."

"Did the nasty man take you to the horrid vet clinic and leave you in the car for ages?" Rodney asked the kitten earnestly.

John grimaced. "Yeah, well, I figured we'd either break up 'cause you were leaving, in which case I'd take him back to the station, or we wouldn't, in which case…" He waved at Rodney and the kitten, which was purring now and kneading Rodney's shirt.

"But I haven't got anything for him," Rodney said, looking up, stricken. "No food or–"

"Relax, I got it all from Radek. It's in another box in the car, plus litter and a tray. I guess I should go get it."

"Yes, chop chop, off you go. I want to give him another small feed."

When John returned Rodney put out some kitten food and a dish of cat milk, and John filled the litter tray and put it in the laundry. He reheated the container of lasagna he'd brought from the Puddlejumper and opened the one of salad, and they ate at the table, Rodney cradling the purring kitten against him. "Is his little belly full?" Rodney crooned, bending to nuzzle the black furry head.

John eyed them, amused and a little jealous. "I'm not getting lucky tonight, am I? Not with the competition there ruling the roost." He leaned over and ran a careful finger down the kitten's back.

Rodney covered the tiny cat's ears, making it squeak in protest. "Not in front of the children. Besides, I have to name him. Names are crucial, as my parents utterly failed to grasp."

"Hippocrates?" John suggested.

Rodney snorted. "And call him 'Hippo' for short? I think not," He lifted the now-drowsy kitten and narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to call him Osler—after Sir William Osler, one of the greatest diagnosticians of all time. He was a founder of Johns Hopkins." He looked over at John. "You'd have liked him—he had a wicked sense of humor and he was a wonderful teacher. He was the first one to start specialized training for physicians. In fact, he's the reason med students even do hands-on rotations, and–"

John got up to put the coffee mugs in the sink and leaned over Rodney to kiss the top of his head and interrupt the history lesson. He chucked the kitten under his chin. "Well, Ozzie, let's hope you live up to your namesake."

"Oh, you are _not_ calling him Ozzie!" Rodney protested, appalled. "It sounds like that headbanger Ozzy Osbourne, not the father of modern medicine!"

John raised his hands. "Hey, you're the one who chose the name!" He pulled Rodney up. "C'mon, let's call it a night. Even if you're protecting his delicate sensibilities, we can still, y'know, huddle for warmth." He waggled his eyebrows.

Rodney snorted, then turned back to the kitten. "I'll put my old orange fleece in the box for him to sleep on," he decided.

Hand in hand, with Osler purring on Rodney's chest, they went up the stairs to bed.

* * *

**Epilogue**

After several nights with Osler mewing demandingly and Rodney up and down fussing over him, getting only patchy sleep, John, whose sleep was also a mess, lay in bed and thought about the past week.

He'd moved into Rodney's, one carload being enough for his guitar, surfboard, and duffle of gear. So far, Rodney had refused to let him put his Johnny Cash poster up anywhere, but John was working on it.

The dinner at Jeannie's had gone as well as could be expected, with no sign of that Keller woman. John had shot Jeannie a dirty look when Rodney'd raised her attempt at matchmaking.

Jeannie threw up her hands. "Well, honestly, Mer, how was I to know you and John were an item? You never tell me anything!"

Rodney glowered. "If you let slip personal stuff in this town, the next thing it's on Pegasus Radio!"

"I would never gossip about you, Mer. We're family." Jeannie said, frowning at him.

"Yes, and it's my experience of close family that's resulted in my well-adjusted and trusting nature," Rodney said tartly, then sighed. "Okay, that was unfair. You're not like Mum and Dad."

Jeannie's mouth tightened. "Can we _not_ –"

"Um, to be fair, we kind of didn't know we were an item ourselves until this week," John broke in, trying to head off a McKay family meltdown. Kaleb shot him a relieved glance as he carried a platter of brownish cubes out to the barbecue. John eyed it doubtfully; he preferred his food not to have right angles.

Rodney nodded. "I mean, we'd been… together… for a while,"—Jeannie rolled her eyes at the euphemism—"but we didn't, ah, _talk_ until a few days ago."

Jeannie groaned. "You're as bad as each other," she said, thwapping Rodney with a dishtowel.

He dodged away. "Stop that. Anyway, John's booked us both in for an interpersonal skills class."

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, Woolsey wouldn't let Rodney keep his license unless he did something like that, although saving Jinto helped."

"I should hope so!" Jeannie said hotly, switching on a dime from frustration with her brother to his defense. "Jeez, Mer, interpersonal skills? The instructor's going to have their hands full with you two."

"Rodney made a dismissive noise. "It's just a course. I've aced every course I ever took."

"I rest my case," Jeannie said, smirking.

"Tofu's ready," Kaleb said, sticking his head in the back door. Rodney groaned and John pasted on a polite smile.

So that had happened, and Woolsey had scampered back to Brunswick to avoid catching the dreaded campylobacter, and everyone thought Rodney was a hero—rude and a bit weird, but still, a hero. If only Rodney would stop fussing over the kitten so he and John could get some damn sleep and enjoy the benefits of their so-called relationship, everything would be sweet.

As he lay there waiting for Osler to mew again and wake Rodney, John had a brainwave. He decided to give it a try the next day. He was pretty sure it would be fine, but he timed his experiment when Rodney was busy with patients, sneaking Buddy, the shaggy gray dog, into the house and introducing him to the kitten.

It was love at first sight. Buddy nuzzled the small black demon affectionately and let the kitten pounce on him, endlessly patient. Luckily, Buddy's thick coat made him impervious to the kitten's sharp claws—John and Rodney both had a collection of scratches by now. The two animals were nearly inseparable, with Buddy following the kitten around like a mother hen and Osler tumbling after Buddy's tail and leaping out in ambush from under the couch. When he crashed out, exhausted from playing, Osler curled up against Buddy's furry belly or between his front legs, purring like a train and kneading dreamily.

From then on, Buddy and Osler slept in the laundry in a nest made from the orange fleece and an old blanket John had brought with him.

In their bed, now they had the room to themselves and Rodney was finally not up and down with Osler all night, John held him close. Rodney was catching up on missed sleep, whiffling softly into John's neck. John yawned drowsily. He could wait, because with Buddy minding Osler he figured the sex embargo was over, and he was very much looking forward to more than distracted kisses.

Smiling in anticipation, John pulled Rodney closer, snuggling down to dream of blow jobs.

* * *

the end

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, huge thanks to Avatoh (Avatoh on tumblr, Otava on AO3) for painting these gorgeous portraits of Doc Mack and Police Chief Sheppard - please leave Avatoh feedback on this post for the art.
> 
> Click through each portrait for the full-sized artwork.
> 
>   
>  [](http://www.mediafire.com/convkey/9f45/4hd782iqgi09b0bzg.jpg) [](http://www.mediafire.com/convkey/4a9f/5faeaj95s89selhzg.jpg)
> 
> * * *


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